You're An Idiot
by SparxFlame
Summary: A string of mysterious murders, a kidnapping, and a threatening message. There's a new game afoot, except this time Sherlock isn't sure he wants to play. But then, it's not like he has a choice. He promised, after all. Whump. COMPLETE!
1. A Disturbing Murder

**A/N: This was inspired by a picture on Deviantart ( ) of Sherlock sitting on a wall and looking beautifully concussed, and John looking generally disapproving of the mess that his flatmate had gotten into this time. What was originally supposed to be a whumpy, fluffy one-shot somehow mutated, with the help of google, into a full-blown mystery with kidnapping and serial killers. Yeah, I know. My brain scares even me, sometimes.**

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to, surprisingly enough, the BBC. Just because John and Sherlock decided to take up (highly irritating) residence in my brain until I wrote this does not mean I own it.**

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><p>It all started at a crime scene. Sherlock was deducing and insulting, Lestrade was looking confused and trying to stop Donovan from clawing Sherlock's eyes out, and John was hovering around, stamping his feet in an effort to stay warm and huffing out clouds of white breath into the cold autumn air, feeling very much like a third wheel. He wished he'd thought to bring a coat like Sherlock, but the temperature had veered downwards with no warning at all, and suddenly his black and white striped jumper was no longer enough to keep him warm.<p>

"Unidentified Caucasian male, around thirty-five-"  
>"Yes, yes, blah blah blah" snapped Sherlock irritably, circling the body and looking uncomfortably like a vulture with his black coat snapping out behind him. "Please don't state the obvious, Lestrade. Has anyone touched the body?"<br>"Well, not really-"  
>"You let the forensics team mess around?" Sherlock was almost snarling now, body taught with a strange tension, different from the usual adrenaline-filled anticipation that filled him at crime scenes. "Honestly! I ask one thing from you, one <em>small<em> thing, in return for my help, that I'm the first one to examine the scene, and-"

"I'm sorry, but the entirety of the Met _cannot_ revolve around the stroppy wishes of a consulting detective that can't even arrive at the scene on time!" Lestrade had evidently had enough of being used as Sherlock's verbal punch bag for whatever was upsetting him. "I asked you to be here an _hour_ ago. I can hold forensics off for ten, fifteen minutes, but an _hour_?"

"I had difficulty getting a taxi." Sherlock's tone was sulky, petulant.  
>"Then maybe you should consider investing in a car of your own," Lestrade bit back in an icy voice that signalled the end of his patience. "Now, are you going to help us or not?"<br>Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock pull himself up to his full height, trying to tower over Lestrade and not quite succeeding. For all he was smaller, the police officer could have an intimidatingly large presence when he wanted to.

"No. The scene is completely useless to me once your idiots-" he cast a superior look at Anderson, and was answered with a glare of pure loathing, "-have contaminated it with their clumsiness. Keep me informed of anything you find. Come on, John, I'm going home." He made a curt beckoning gesture and swept off, coat flaring behind him and wind whipping his hair around his head.

"Yeah, John, run along like a nice little pet," muttered Donovan from somewhere behind him, voice laced with a loathing John knew was directed more at Sherlock than at him, so he ignored her and hurried after the consulting detective who was skulking moodily in the shadows just past the police tape, waiting for him. As soon as he had caught up, Sherlock started walking again, far too fast, every movement full of that same, agitated tension.

John waited until they were out of sight and earshot of any nosy police officers before finally letting his curiosity get the better of him. "Alright. You've got me. What is it?"  
>"What?" asked Sherlock, turning to him, eyes refocusing as if he'd been off on another planet entirely.<br>"You've been twitchy ever since you laid eyes on the body. What've you deduced?"  
>"Hmm," murmured Sherlock, eyes unfocusing again, feet working automatically to take him along the pavement.<p>

"_Sherlock_!"

He took a deep breath. "John. Tell me what you noticed about the body."  
>"Well, it was the same as the other three. The starburst pattern of cuts on the chest. The clothes were undamaged and soaked through, like the others. The burn to the right shoulder and the left palm, done after death judging by the lack of blood. The kind of ritual element to it." He shuddered, not entirely because of the cold. "Whoever's doing it, they're sick."<p>

Sherlock seemed uninterested in his observations. "Yes, yes, it's the work of a serial killer, they're all the same. But what about other senses? Smell?"  
>John scrunched his nose up as he thought for a moment. "There wasn't much of a smell," he pronounced eventually. "Just blood and... maybe something chemically, although that was probably from the forensics team."<p>

Sherlock stopped walking. "It wasn't. Not unless they've started using chlorinated water for disinfectant or something."  
>John had carried on walking, but stopped at the word 'chlorine'. "...What? You're saying the killer splashed <em>chlorine<em> on them? Why? What significance does that have?"

"You can't splash chlorine, it's a gas." Despite his condescending tone, Sherlock hunched his shoulders and looked down, even more tense than before – if that was even possible. He rubbed the last three fingers of his left hand against his palm, a sort of nervous gesture (although he'd sulked when John had called it that, and denied it having any link to anxiety) he'd picked up after the pool.

"Think about it, John," he whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. "A wound to the shoulder. A wound to the palm. Chlorine. Water. Put it together."  
>John frowned, mind struggling against fatigue and the cold to find a link. It took only a few seconds, and then his eyes widened. "Oh."<br>Sherlock nodded grimly, eyes closing and head tilting back to look up at the sky, baring a pale neck to the moon. "Yes. The shoulder wound for you. Chlorine and water for the pool. The hand wound for me."

He held out a hand, fingers unfurling like the petals of a mysterious flower to reveal a raised line running across his left palm from just below his thumb to the base of his little finger. He stretched the fingers just a little too far and winced, hand dropping to his side again. Of all the injuries they'd sustained from the pool incident, the various superficial scars they'd both received, that was the one Sherlock had fixated on. It had ruined the dexterity of that hand, spelling a temporary end to violin playing, writing and texting.

Thankfully, Sherlock being Sherlock, he'd taken only a week to become proficient enough with his right hand he was now almost ambidextrous; unfortunately, he still didn't always remember that he shouldn't use his left hand, which lead to frequent winces and sounds of dropped objects.

"Moriarty's dead, Sherlock. They found his body," said John, after a moment's pause in which he wished he could comfort his friend in a way that wouldn't end with Sherlock freezing up and refusing to discuss the matter any more.  
>"They found <em>a<em> body. There's a fairly large difference." He no longer sounded sulky. He sounded tired, angry and – although John could have been imagining things – just a little worried. He began walking again, and once again John had to hurry to catch up with his long stride.

"They- Sherlock, it was wearing Moriarty's clothes. I ID'd it as Moriarty. Case closed!" John knew he sounded exasperated, but it couldn't help himself. "Honestly, sometimes it seems like you almost _wish_ he was still alive."  
>Sherlock's eyes blazed as he grabbed John's elbow and swung him around so they were face to face. "Do <em>not<em>, do not _ever_ say that, never!" he snarled, some of the tension in his body overflowing into his voice. His hand tightened around John's elbow to the point John's hand began to go numb.

John sighed, looking down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "That was... unfair." He hesitated. "But, before, when he was setting you all those 'games', you seemed like you were enjoying it. I just wondered, if, maybe... you were missing the challenge."  
>Sherlock let go of his elbow and refused to look at him, instead walking slowly down the path, staring straight ahead. "I did. I do," he said eventually, voice heavy. "But... but that was before."<br>"Before what?" The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them.  
>"Before he involved you. The competition was between me and him – you were a neutral person, he had no right to go around kidnapping you." He sounded sulky again now, like a child who'd had their favourite toy taken away.<br>"I was hardly neutral, trailing around after you and helping," laughed John, trying not to sound too awkward. "And anyway, what about those other people, the ones he strapped the bombs to. Weren't they neutral too?"

"Helping," snorted Sherlock, shaking his head in what seemed to be derisive amusement. "You weren't helping in any manner that he could have possibly considered a threat. And those other people weren't _mine_."  
>John, who'd been in the process of breathing in, choked on the cold air and coughed, trying to stop the blood rushing to his cheeks. Sherlock had the alarming habit of saying things that, from other people, would be completely and utterly inappropriate. John had to force himself to remember that he didn't understand the connotations of what he said – or, at least, John sincerely hoped he didn't understand the connotations. The alternative was... highly discomforting.<p>

"...'When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever is left must be the truth, however improbable'," murmured Sherlock, oblivious of the reaction his previous words had caused. He sounded like he was quoting something. "Plenty of people know about the pool incident – it was all over the news, after all. Few people know we were involved in it. I suppose Mycroft is useful for something after all." He didn't sound terribly convinced by his own statement. "Even fewer know about your shoulder and my hand as _well_ as knowing about the pool. Of the people that do know, some such as Mycroft and Lestrade can be instantly disqualified. Others, like your therapist, are highly unlikely. The most likely suspect is, in fact, Moriarty, who has an unfortunate habit of knowing everything." His mouth twisted down in a sour scowl.

"Yes, he'd be the perfect suspect, if he wasn't _dead_!" snapped John, not even bothering to hide his exasperation.  
>"How do you know." His tone was flat with disbelief, with no intonation to indicate a question.<br>"Well, for starters there was the body..."  
>"How did you know the body was him?"<br>"Because... well... he was wearing the same clothes, and he had dark hair, and as far as I could tell the same skin tone, and he was the same height..."  
>"But you couldn't be sure? You couldn't see the face, I understand."<p>

"No. The face was rather badly, ah, damaged." John winced as the memory of the ripped up face, covered in blood and bruises and torn beyond recognition floated in his mind's eye. The rest of the body hadn't fared much better – Moriarty had evidently received a face-full of bricks during the explosion.

"So, in short, you cannot be one hundred percent sure it was Moriarty." Sherlock sounded triumphant, but in no way gleeful about his own superiority.  
>"No, but- Look, Sherlock, you can't just start leaping to conclusions because there's a few little signs that these killings <em>might<em> somehow be related to Moriarty. Maybe they're being done by another member of his organisation. He had quite a network set up, from what I understand."  
>"Yes. But still. I am... uneasy." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, sticking his hands in his pockets, and they walked on for silence for a few minutes.<p>

And then, abruptly, Sherlock turned off the path by the road and down a dark passage that, John suspected, probably lead to a network of unsavoury alleys.  
>"Sherlock! What are you doing?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice down and his body language neutral. If Sherlock had a reason for doing this, he didn't want to mess up any plan the detective might have.<p>

Sherlock ignored him, instead turning and twisting down a few more alleys before bending his head close to John's and murmuring, so quietly as to be almost inaudible. "Don't be alarmed, don't give anything away, don't look, but I think there's someone tailing us. About ten meters back, staying to the shadows, not being very subtle about it. Walks like a man, probably around our age."

John let out a hissing breath of frustration between his teeth. Nothing could even be simple with Sherlock. "What do we do?"  
>"Keep walking, see if we can lose him, see if he gets bored."<br>"And if he doesn't?"  
>"Confront him." There was a touch of buzzing excitement to Sherlock's voice, an edge of adrenaline John hadn't heard in a long time – whoever he was, this person had taken Sherlock's attention off of Moriarty for the time being.<p>

They walked some more in silence, winding further down alleys, crossing a few roads before plunging back into the tight confines of brick walls and dirty puddles. John was still shivering as the temperature dropped further, the cold biting through his jumper and skin, and he stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders over. At least the high walls provided some protection from the bitter wind, although it was very obvious that winter was well on its way.

Finally. Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of an alley and whirled around, making his coat flare. His eyes were narrow, concentrated – dangerous. He scanned the alley, quickly picking up on the shadowed shape of a person at the end of it. John turned a second later and spotted the figure just as quickly. The person, definitely male, seemed unconcerned about being spotted, stepping forward so only his face was still in the dark, leaning against a wall and crossing his arms in a lazy fashion. He wore a dark leather jacket, well-worn jeans, and an incongruous pair of tightly-laced converses.

"Who are you?" called Sherlock. "What do you want?"  
>There was no reply, other than a flicker in the shadowed face that could have been the lips curving into an amused smirk. And then, ever so slowly, the arms uncrossed and one hand reached out towards the two. John's hand shot towards his pocket, automatically reaching for a gun that wasn't there, but before he could do anything the figure beckoned once, slowly.<p>

And then he turned and ran.

"Well, that was-" began John, turning to look at Sherlock – but the detective was no longer there. He caught a glimpse of the edge of a dark coat trailing around the edge of a corner, and the sound of two pairs of footsteps echoing off the brick walls, and then nothing.

"Great. Fan-bloody-tastic," he muttered darkly, raising his eyes to the heavens in silent anger at whichever god had decided that he should be lumped with Sherlock Holmes as a friend-slash-flatmate.

And then, with a huffed breath of annoyance, he began to run after them.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<br>**


	2. A Sinister Invitation

**A/N: Sorry that this chapter is so short, but it was the only place to make a break so the next chapter isn't ridiculously long.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC, not me.  
><strong>

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><p>Sherlock's mind was whirring with thoughts as he ran through the alleys, only keeping track of the mysterious man with great difficulty, as a darker shade of black flashing between shadows and the occasional ghost of echoing footsteps. Who was he? Why was he here? What was his connection to the murders? Why had he beckoned? Questions and answers, equations with numerous solutions, flashed through his mind, webs of possibilities and probabilities spreading out and winding together, connections twisting between them like synapses and linking up to show him pictures of the future and past.<p>

It was a constant process, distracting and unstoppable, maddening. He had no quiet, no peace of mind, _ever_ – not without the drugs, anyway, and Mycroft had made it perfectly clear what would happen if Sherlock ever touched _them_ again. Even nicotine only dulled it slightly, enough that he could float above the twisting, living mess and see where the threads of facts and deductions converged and wound together, thickening. From there, he could plot the courses of people's thoughts and actions, see them as ghosts from the past, work out what they had done and why.

From there, he could see everything, the grand, far-reaching plot rather than just the snippets, flashing behind his eyelids before his mind leapt to a parallel train track. When he had been using the drugs he had sometimes felt like, if he could just reach out that little bit further, find that one last fact to fit into place, he could have unravelled the universe with a thought, bared its soul and its secrets to his inquisitive gaze. His mind was both a gift and a curse – something he hated, but could never bring himself to wish away.

At least the adrenaline of wild, damp, dark race quietened his spiralling thoughts somewhat – right up until the point the chase ended very abruptly in a brick wall. He skidded to a halt, head turning, eyes scanning for a sign of where the other man had gone. They fell on a door, semi-concealed in shadows in a corner, just slightly ajar. A darkly amused smile curved the corners of his mouth, eyes alight with the thrill of the chase; something he'd found himself unable to revel in since Moriarty's death. All the cases had been too dull to merit his attention, but now he found himself engaged in the mystery of the strange man.

He slipped inside the door, pulling it open just far enough to get through, grateful that the hinges didn't screech in protest at the movement. The inside of the building was pitch black, darker than the night outside, a thick, congealing shadow that smothered all of his senses. He stood still for a moment, eyes closed in an attempt to speed up the onset of night vision. When he opened them again, the dark was still there, with only the faintest shadows of walls and objects to help him navigate. He set off forwards, towards the foot of what looked like stairs, one arm stretched out to the side and trailing along the wall.

He failed to notice the black shadow that slipped in behind him and pulled the door shut, pulling a silent bolt across it to lock it in place, which crept up the stairs behind him and followed him into the room at the top.

Sherlock pushed the door directly at the top of the stairs open, wincing at the angry noise it made in protest at the movement. He may as well have just screamed 'here I am' to the empty house. He slid inside as quickly as he could, moving away from the doorway as quickly as he could and into a corner of the room, assuming that his would-be tail would have the same disadvantage as him in the empty house – near-blind, and making tell-tale noises of creaks and squeaks at every turn.

He soon discovered why it was so unnaturally dark in the run-down building. The windows had been boarded over very thoroughly, trapping the light outside. He ran his fingers lightly over the rough plywood where there should have smooth glass. He took a step back from the wall and was about to turn and leave the room when something connected hard with the side of his left knee, knocking him to the ground with a surprised cry of pain as his leg buckled underneath him. He landed on hands and knees, left palm suddenly screaming protest at him as he spread his fingers to brace against the ground. He curled it into a loose fist, clutching it automatically to his chest as his eyes scrunched closed and he sucked in a surprised breath.

Before he had a chance to gather his bearings, a hand fisted itself into his hair and dragged him onto his knees, forcing his cheek against the cold brick of the wall. The other snaked around the front of him, dragging his scarf off and then closing impossibly tight around his throat. He choked, coughing, twisting wildly in an attempt to throw the assailant off, but in vain. The man, for all his short height, was surprisingly strong. He chuckled, hot breath ghosting past Sherlock's cheek as black spots erupted across his vision.

And then, when the blood was roaring past his ears loud enough to drown out all sound and his vision was fading out to black around the edges, the hand let go. He slumped against the wall, gasping raggedly for breath past his bruised throat, and almost missed the soft words that were whispered in his ear.

"Professor Moriarty sends his love, and an invitation to join him in a new game... Sherlock Holmes."

There was something mocking about the way the voice pronounced his name, like it amused the speaker. The words ignited another wave of tension that rushed through Sherlock's body, his eyes snapping open, and a mad, noisy increase to the speed of his thoughts until it felt like there was no space left in his head, and some of them were sure to be cascading out of his ears for there to be enough room. And then the hand in his hair was pulling his head back, and something hard struck his temple. There was a moment of pain, of blinding light searing the insides of his eyelids, and then freefall.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<br>**


	3. A Missing Scarf

**A/N: Yay, nice long chapter! In which Sherlock is generally cute, and John is amused/exasperated/worried...  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC, not me.  
><strong>

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><p>John skidded to a halt in the alley, panting and swearing under his breath. He'd lost Sherlock and the mysterious man at a cross-junction of paths, and had had to retrace his steps... which had ended in a brick wall, a dead end. He snarled under his breath, punching the wall and then hissing in pain as the rough, dirty brick scraped his knuckles. He turned, pacing up and down the alley, around in circles, looking at everything, trying to analyse like Sherlock did.<p>

It took him about a minute to notice the door. That brought on a fresh round of swearing, not at Sherlock this time but at himself, for being so slow to notice it. He marched up and pulled on it, expecting the old, battered sheet of wood to swing towards him. Instead, it stayed remarkably firmly shut. He gave it another couple of tugs, but it wouldn't budge.

Shaking his head in angry, helpless frustration, he pushed at it. Nothing happened, but he noticed that the wood seemed weaker nearer the hinges than the handle. He frowned. That suggested that someone had replaced the locking mechanism recently, whilst leaving the hinges to rust and squeak. It was a strange thing to do, unless-

His eyes widened. "Sherlock!" he yelled, temporarily forgetting the need for quiet, fear rippling through him as he realised someone had planned the whole encounter remarkably well, leading him and Sherlock on a merry dance until they ended up at this particular building. Which, considering they _had _ended up there, didn't bode well for Sherlock's chances of coming out unharmed. Or possibly alive.

He eyed the door, assessing it, and then turned so his good shoulder was pointing towards it. He braced himself for the impact and threw his weight towards the door, hitting it as near as the hinges as he could. The door creaked, an angry cracking sound issuing from the old, abused wood, and when he repeated the action it gave entirely, swaying drunkenly from one lower hinge, still skewered in the middle by the bolt that had closed it so thoroughly.

John hopped neatly over the wreckage he had caused, padding as silently as he could into the house. He walked down the musty corridor, trying each door he came across, only to find them all locked. No sound issued from within, not even heavy breathing, so he abandoned them. Eventually, he found the stairs, still groping blindly along the corridor with one hand to the wall. His foot hit the bottom step and he had to suppress another curse.

Creeping up the stairs, still squinting into the darkness, his probing fingers came across a door that was ajar. He pushed it open as gently as he could, and then wincing as it squealed loudly anyway.  
>"Sherlock?" he called, figuring caution was probably a pointless exercise at this point – any assailants would have already heard him enter the room and put him out of action, if they had so wished.<p>

"Bit pretentious, isn't it?"

He almost sagged against the wall with relief as Sherlock's familiar baritone issued from the dark. "Oh, thank god. What the hell were you doing, running of like that?"  
>Sherlock gave no sign he'd heard. "I mean, Moriarty was bad enough, but <em>Professor<em>Moriarty? That's just going overboard."

John's eyes widened at the name and he stumbled further into the room, worried about accidently treading on Sherlock. "What? Moriarty was- he was _here_? That was him? But-"  
>"No, no." Something about the reply worried John. There was no condescension in it, no note of triumph – just a sad, mildly irritated acceptance. "That was someone else, probably one of Moriarty's..." There was an alarming pause, where it sounded like Sherlock was struggling for words. Sherlock <em>never<em>struggled for words. "...associates." He coughed, a dry, harsh sound. "But he sent me a message. From Moriarty."

John slipped a hand into his pocket, bringing out his phone and pressing the center button to illuminate the screen. It shed a pale, bluish light over everything that sucked the colour out of their surroundings and gave the air an eerie glow, filled with sparkling dust particles.

Sherlock was sitting down, back leant against the walls and one knee drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around it. The other leg, his left, was stretched out somewhat awkwardly in front of him, half bent. As John turned the phone towards him, trying to get a better look, he winced, twisting his head away from the light and throwing up a forearm to protect his eyes. As he did so, the light of the phone caught on a splash of colour smeared across his forehead, turned almost black by the bluish illumination.

Alarmed, John took another step forward, and Sherlock actually hissed at him, curling further away from the light. Reluctantly, John thumbed the brightness down, leaving barely enough light to see by. Sherlock relaxed slightly, uncurling and looking up at John – exposing a length of pale throat marred by purpling bruises blossoming around it, in the shape of finger marks. John winced.

"Honestly, what is it with you and getting strangled? Can't you look after yourself for two minutes without me?" He didn't give Sherlock an opportunity to answer, bending down and brushing fingers along the marks, scrutinising them with a doctor's eye. Sherlock flinched away from the touch, eyes closing briefly. "How on earth you managed to stay alive without me before, I don't know." He stood up. "Come on. Let's get out of here – I can't see anything properly in this light."

Sherlock nodded and then winced again, face scrunching up as a wave of nausea rolled through him at the motion. Thankfully, John didn't seem to notice, and he pushed himself upright, carefully avoiding putting any weight on the leg that had been struck, leaning against the wall, deliberately ignoring the sharp increase in dizziness and a sudden ringing that echoed in his ears. John was already half-way through the door, and Sherlock sighed, starting to go after him.

As soon as he put any serious amount of weight on his left leg it buckled beneath him, sending sharp pain shooting from his knee up and down the leg. He whimpered, biting down on his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, and leant back on the wall again. "John." The word hurt his throat, and he coughed, bending over, eyes closing. The motion caused another wave of nausea and he sagged against the wall, groaning.

John turned around quickly, eyes widening in alarm as he saw Sherlock, half-upright, eyelids fluttering, one leg limp and held carefully off the ground. He sighed, retracing his steps and pulling the detective's arm over his shoulders, slipping an arm of his own around his back, and managing to get him upright. It was an awkward position because of the difference in height, but at least Sherlock could walk.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, sounding not-quite-there.  
>John couldn't spare the attention to look at him as he tried to navigate down the stairs, concentrating on not sending them both head over heels, but he snorted in reply. "You know, you could have asked for help <em>before <em>you nearly collapsed."

"Mmh." He coughed, staggering slightly despite John's supporting arm. The headache was getting worse, throbbing in his temples and stabbing at the back of his head, making thought almost impossible and not throwing up an activity that required all of his concentration.

John hesitated when they reached the semi-demolished door, seeing no way for the pair of them to fit through the doorway in one go. Eventually he took his arm from around Sherlock and stepped over the wreckage before holding out a hand to help his friend across. "Hold onto the doorframe, yeah? Look, I'm just here, if you can just-"

Sherlock stepped forward, and, forgetting the results it had had last time, nodded. As the movement jarred his head and his injured leg touched the ground, there was a sudden explosion of pain and floating lights behind his eyes, blotting out the world, and the ringing was back. He staggered forwards, the ground titling wildly beneath him. His sense of balance gave out entirely and the floor came rushing up to meet him. Something burning hot coiled in his stomach and rose up his throat, choking him.

When the confusion disappeared and the world righted itself and vision returned, he was on hands and knees in the dirty alleyway, one hand in a puddle, vomiting. His stomach heaved, rejecting its contents even when they were gone. A warm hand was rubbing soothing circles on his back, and another was holding his hair back from his face as he shuddered, retching.

Finally the waves of nausea dulled and stopped, and he was left gasping for breath, trying to spit the bitter taste from his mouth, only vaguely recognising the comforting, murmured babble coming from above him – from... his blurred mind fought for a second, wrestled with the name, and felt it slip away like butter.

He pushed himself away from the mess, leaning against a nearby wall, peering blearily up at the face swimming above him. "John," he mumbled, the word tasting strange but right in his mouth as he finally remembered it.  
>"It's okay, Sherlock, it's okay, I'm here, I've got you. Just breathe, in and out, nice and slowly, tell me when the dizziness goes."<p>

Sherlock did as he was told automatically, levelling out his breathing. It battered back the dizziness and unclouded his mind slightly but brought the throbbing pain of his headache back at full force. "S'gone. As far as'ts gonna go, 'nyway." The words slurred in his mouth, becoming garbled in conduit between his brain and tongue.

"Okay. I'm going to see if we can get you standing up, right? Nice and slowly now, don't put any weight on your left leg, try not to move your head, we're going to go nice and slowly, one, two, three..." Arms looped under his, dragging one of his arms around a set of shoulders and slowly pulling him upright. He swayed slightly, moaning in protest.

"We need to do a bit of walking now, Sherlock, okay? We need to get to the main road. Do you think you can walk?"  
>"'m dizzy John, not disabled," he sighed, leaning heavily on the smaller man and feeling slightly guilty because of it as together the stumbled down the alley, towards the brighter street lights of the main road. The lights hurt his eyes and he kept them half shut. Something thick and sticky was beginning to drip down over his right eye, crusting his lashes together and giving a reddish hue to the road before him.<p>

"Sit down."  
>He acted out of reflex, allowing himself to be sat down on a low wall that left his head slightly lower than John's. It was a relief, after the strain of holding himself upright, to be able to relax slightly... he didn't realise quite <em>how<em> much he'd relaxed until gentle hands caught his face and he opened his eyes to see John's jumper swimming in front of them. He struggled to sit upright, swaying slightly, headache still thrumming in his temples. John kept hold of his head, carefully keeping him from pitching forward again.

"Woah, careful," said John softly, angling Sherlock's face up towards him and wincing at what he found there. The flash of damp colour he'd seen amongst Sherlock's curls in the room was, as he'd suspected, blood. He hadn't realised there was quite so much of it though. The cut on his forehead, just past the hairline, was short but deep, and bleeding a lot; but head wounds always did. The trail of crimson had spread, dripping down over one eye and matting his dark curls to his forehead. John pushed them out the way, trying to get a better view of the injury, and his fingertips were quickly sticky with blood.

"Have I already told you you're an idiot?" John's mouth was pressed into a tight, disapproving line as he tried to wipe some of the blood away, and just ended up with more of it smeared over his fingertips.  
>"Possibly," said Sherlock heavily. His face was dazed – he looked lost and confused, one hand pressed against the wall he sat on to steady himself. "S'all a bit blurry."<br>"That's normal," said John. "You're concussed. You'll feel dizzy, confused, nauseous and have a killer headache for a while."

"Alr'dy got that," he mumbled, swaying forward again and forcing John to catch his head in order to stop blood from being smeared all over his jumper. Instead, Sherlock ended up with bloodied fingerprints on his cheeks.  
>"Sherlock, I need you to stay awake and keep talking to me, okay? If you've got concussion, then you need to stay awake." John's voice was worried.<br>Sherlock groaned, fighting through the headache pounding through his brain. "S'all blurry."

"You already said that."  
>"I did...?" Sherlock blinked slowly at him, owlish, pupils far too big even for the meager light shed by the lampposts.<br>"Yeah. Talk about something else."  
>"Moriarty?"<br>John's fingers tensed into half-curled fists at the name, without consent. He forced himself to relax, and carried on brushing Sherlock's hair out the way, trying not to poke the cut. "Something else."

There was a pause, and Sherlock made a soft humming noise at the back of his throat as he thought. Without the calculating look his face usually held he looked surprisingly... human. "It's snowing," he said eventually.  
>"Mmh?" John made a non-committal noise, looking up at the sky. It was indeed, fat flakes of white were falling from the sky. He shivered. "And I don't even have a coat."<p>

Sherlock squinted at him. "Well, you should have put one on when we left. Where's my scarf gone?"  
>John had treated concussions quite a few times before, and was used to the strange changes in thought direction people had when they were concussed. Keeping them talking was the important thing. "I don't know. You didn't have it with you when I found you."<br>"The unknown man must have stolen it. He must have removed it when he strangled me."

John snorted with laughter and shook his head – only Sherlock could talk about being strangled so calmly. "Why would he do that?"  
>"I don't kn- ah!" Sherlock reeled backwards, eyes wide, clumsily trying to push John away, one hand clutched protectively over his forehead. "That hurt," he mumbled accusatorily.<p>

"Sorry." John caught the madly waving hand by the wrist and waited until it was still before letting go, and carefully removing the other hand. He stopped Sherlock from falling backward off the wall because of the dizziness caused by the movement, sitting beside him and threading and arm behind his back to support him.

"Okay, you definitely have concussion-" he started.  
>"I do?" Sherlock sounded mildly surprised as he stared at John. His pupils were huge, dark, leaving just a tiny strip of silver-blue iris around the outside.<br>"Yes. But it's nothing I can't take care of at home; the cut's not big enough to need stitching. And you mustn't go to sleep – that's very important. Not for a couple of hours at least, until your pupils go back to normal... Sherlock, are you listening?"

His eyes had drifted slowly shut, and at John's irritated words, they flew open again. "Sorry. I think I missed that." He coughed, and then pressed a hand to his temple. "My _head_."  
>"I know," said John, because there wasn't much else he could say. He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder in a vaguely comforting way, and was surprised when the detective didn't pull away but seemed to relax into the contact slightly. Usually Sherlock shied away from even handshakes.<p>

"So, what do we do now?"  
>"Wait for a taxi." John sighed. "Get you home, disinfect that cut, clean up the blood-" he looked down at himself, "-which is <em>never<em> going to come out of this. Bugger, I liked this jumper."  
>Sherlock smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching vaguely upwards before falling back into the dazed, slightly melancholy state they'd been in before.<p>

"John?"  
>"Yes?"<br>"What happened to my scarf?"

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<br>**


	4. A Small Deduction

**A/N: A mildly filler-ish chapter, this one, but the plot (sort of) starts next chapter. Well. The beginnings of plot, anyways - yes, there _is_ a plot, shocking, I know. Aaaand, just for fun, hands up those going to the London MCM Expo this weekend! -raises hand- ...What? No one else...? Maww...  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be worrying about having a career, would I? It belongs to the BBC, guys.**

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><p>They'd had to wait almost fifteen minutes sat on the wall, conversation going round in circles as Sherlock struggled to remember what he'd already asked, hoping a taxi would drive past. Eventually, one had, and then John had had to spend another five minutes convincing the driver that no, Sherlock wasn't drunk and no, he didn't need a hospital, and no, he wouldn't bleed on the taxi, and yes, could he just take them to 221b Baker Street, that would be fine.<p>

John staggered out the taxi after paying the driver, trying to support Sherlock as best he could. The detective had become less and less coherent as the concussion had set in more thoroughly and the constant headache and pain had worn down his ability to fight it. In any other circumstance, seeing the great Sherlock Holmes babbling and slurring would have been amusing, but for John worry stripped the situation of any possibly amusement.

Sherlock's remembrance of the events after sitting with John on the low wall was patchy at best. How they'd managed to get up the stairs, he couldn't for the life of him remember. His memory skipped from the wall to getting out of a taxi, despite not remembering getting in one. Then it flashed to his leaning against a wall outside their apartment, sliding slowly down it as the heavy, pounding tiredness made his bones feel like they had been turned to liquid. John had been searching his pockets for the keys, shivering – the warmth of the house hadn't yet managed to eradicate the biting cold of the snow.

"You've got snow in your hair," Sherlock remembered saying, reaching out to brush it off with the tips of his fingers. He remembered John replying that he had too, remembered shaking his head to try and get it off, remembered the sudden, dark burst of pain in his temples.

Then that memory fragmented and merged into sitting on the sofa; sprawling, really, slumped to one side, head sliding slowly towards the armrest.  
>"Sherlock, stop that." John's voice echoed strangely in his memory, and something warm and soft brushed against his forehead, wiping at the dry, crusted blood there, leaving damp trickles running down the side of his face. Then there was something else, cold and stinging and oh-so-painful, and he had cried out and tried to push the hands touching his face away. His wrists had been caught in a firm grip and the stinging had continued.<p>

Another gap filled with darkness, another fracturing of a memory – this time of being properly curled up on the sofa, feet swung out to one side, touching the armrest, face pressed into the cushions. He could feel warmth by the top of his head, and could see a knee out of the corner of his vision. Trying to look too far around made his head hurt, so he didn't look to see who the knee belonged to.

"Wake up Sherlock," muttered a voice by his ear, cold fingers brushing his cheek. "You mustn't go to sleep yet."  
>He'd mumbled something incomprehensible back and forced his eyes open again. He lay there in silence for a while, the cold hand resting on his cheek and warming slowly from his body heat.<p>

The final memory was barely a memory, just a fraction of a whisper, half heard as he'd begun the descent into sleep and, for once, not been interrupted and dragged back to the present. He'd felt a hand brush through his hair, catching slightly on the dark, tangled curls and a voice had murmured, "Sleep well." He'd tried to reply, but his body was deliciously heavy and unresponsive, and the effort wasn't worth it. He'd descended into sleep.

Now, waking up, the broken memories rushed back to him in a confusing, non-chronological order, the black spaces in between them making him feel disconcerted. He wasn't used to gaps in his mind. However, there were more important things to attend to, so he pushed them aside.

He opened his eyes, the flat swimming into focus just a fraction of a second slower than normal. He was looking at the living room wall, curled up on a sofa in his clothes, still wearing his coat, and a barely-remembered warmth from the night before was missing. There was a dent in the seat cushion by his head, and _that_was still warm. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, unbidden, and he sat up.

The expected rush of nausea didn't appear, and the dizziness was minimal, but there was still a headache making itself known, lodged deep at the back of his skull. He winced, rolling his shoulders and stretching his left leg experimentally. It was stiff and painful – but he'd expected that. However, it felt better than he'd thought. A quick glance at the table showed him an ice pack that was no longer frozen, and told him the answer. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards John.

"You're awake."

He turned slowly, standing up stiffly and holding onto the sofa as he adjusted to being upright. "Yes."  
>"How's the leg and the headache?" John was leaning against the table in a new, non-bloodstained jumper, cradling a cup of tea in his hands. He took a sip of it, watching Sherlock critically as he limped over to the kitchen.<br>"Not as bad as they could have been." He paused, feeling somewhat awkward. "...Thank you. You didn't have to stay with me all night, you know. I can't imagine the sofa's a very comfortable place to be sleeping, if you're sitting up."

He noticed John's eyes widen with surprise, and had to hide a smile by opening the fridge and hunting through a few of his experiments to find the bottle labelled _Lead Iodide Solution _ that currently contained the milk.  
>"How did you...?"<br>"There was an imprint in the sofa from where you'd been sitting. It was still warm, and so it was safe to assume you'd only just got up. Where are the teabags?"

"Look, that's just unfair. You shouldn't be able to do that _at all_, let alone when you're recovering from concussion..." John shook his head, and took another sip of tea. "They're in the spare eyeballs box, which is currently in the plate cupboard."  
>Sherlock retrieved them, set the kettle to boil, and made himself a cup of tea. He sat down, warming his hands on the blue mug, eyes staring blankly at nothing as he thought.<p>

"So," said John, dropping into a seat opposite Sherlock. "Care to explain what happened after you up and left me last night?"  
>Sherlock sighed. "I was careless. I chased the man to a dead end – the same one you found, I assume. I saw the door, and stupidly assumed that's where he'd gone. Judging by the fact that he turned up in the room you found me in <em>after<em> me, and the fact the door had been bolted, necessitating smashing it down to get it, he was waiting _outside_ and came into the house after me. He hit my leg, strangled me, left a message and then knocked me out. Not a terribly charming man." Sherlock sniffed disapprovingly. "_And_he stole my scarf."

"Yes, I know," said John impatiently. "You asked me where that bloody scarf was about ten times last night, in the space of an hour." Sherlock had the decency to look mildly apologetic at that. "Anyway, what was the message?"

"...'Professor Moriarty sends his love, and an invitation to join him in a new game.' Overly dramatic, just slightly pretentious – it sounds very like Moriarty. The 'game' he refers to must be this recent string of murders – what else could it be? – and the have his flair written all over them. He's playing with us, just like last time. But having someone attack me in an abandoned house just to send a message isn't at all his _modus operandi_. Also, last time, he contacted me directly rather than through some hired thug, which implies that the thug is not, indeed, a thug, but a partner, as close as he has to an equal in his organisation. Which means there's more variables than last time, and that complicates things. I'm familiar with Moriarty's signature, but this new man is an unknown quantity, I have no measure of him..."

John had tuned out after the first few sentences, well used to the verbal download of information that was Sherlock's way of organising his thoughts. Anything important or relevant would be repeated at a later date in a more accessible form. As it was, he picked up on only three words in the whole thing. "'Sends his love'? That... that's just creepy. What, is he stalking you now or something?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, amusement touching the edges of his eyes. "It's all part of the game, John, I wouldn't attach too much importance to it. But I think this new man is very important."  
>"Yeah. And we have no idea who he is. Helpful, hmm?" John took another sip of his now rather lukewarm tea, peering at Sherlock over the rim of his mug.<br>"Yes. A mid-height, right-handed man in his early thirties, likely with a military, or at least rather violent, background and a slight tendency towards impulsiveness, with criminal connections... Doesn't give us much to go on." There was no sarcasm in his voice, just plain frustration and an absent note that told John that, whatever was coming out of Sherlock's mouth, it was only a fraction of what was going on inside his brain.

John gaped at him, words not quite making it to his mouth. Eventually, he gulped the last mouthful of tea, put the mug carefully on the table in a spot not covered by junk and experiments, and simply asked, "What?"

"Elementary, really. Mid-height male was perfectly evident, even to you. Criminal connections is equally obvious. Although he damaged my left leg, requiring him to use his left hand to wield the weapon, he used his right hand to beckon and strangle me. Also, the wound on my head is slightly to the right, implying he was wielding the weapon in his right hand when he hit me. The fact he was comfortable enough to wield whatever weapon he had, probably some kind of bat, with either hand implies a familiarity with it, or at least using weapons in general. There was no hesitation in his movements, either, so he most certainly has a violent background. I say military because of the way he moved – very controlled, disciplined, you don't see that in most criminals. The route he took, managing to let me pursue him but keeping you far enough away he'd have time to deliver the message to me, implies he's been trained in urban conflict, professionally, not on the streets."

"...And the impulsiveness piece?" prompted John quietly, trying to not look too obviously astounded.  
>"Ah, yes. Allowing a subordinate to plan something on their own that relates to his 'greater game' is not Moriarty's style. So, the unknown man was following Moriarty's plan. But, as I said, the random attack in a darkened room was not Moriarty's style either. Therefore, the man deviated from the plan, hence impulsiveness issues." Sherlock took a sip of his tea, which had to have been freezing cold and absolutely disgusting by that point, but he didn't seem to mind. "The fact that the plan worked anyway, despite this deviation, implies this man is intelligent and good at thinking on his feet under pressure – more evidence for a military background."<p>

John blinked, mouth quirking up at the corner. "That... actually makes sense. For once."  
>Sherlock threw him a brief, praising look, which made the smile widen. "Maybe you're finally learning to keep up. That would be rather a relief."<br>John threw him a mock scowl, which he completely missed as he was still immersed in his tea. "Well. I would suggest you have a shower, or at the very least a change of clothes. And keep drinking, and try eating something, okay? I don't think mixing starvation with lingering concussion is very good."

"Food is boring."  
>"Yes, but, like breathing, it's unfortunately essential if you want to carry on living."<br>There was a pause. "Living's boring."  
>"You can't deduct when you're dead," John pointed out, and knew from Sherlock's scowl that he'd won, although whether that would mean food would be travelling down the consulting detective's throat was another matter.<br>"Fine. I'll have something later."

John sighed, acknowledging he'd done his best and headed for the door, pulling his coat on.  
>"Where are you going?" Sherlock's eyebrows angled sharply down over his eyes.<br>"To work. Consulting doesn't completely pay the rent, you know." It came out sharper than he'd meant it, but he didn't have the energy to care. He'd got less than six hours sleep, staying up to make sure Sherlock was okay. The tea (and the two cups of coffee he'd had before that) had given him a temporary caffeine boost, but that would wear off before long, and the tiredness had settled in his bones. The thought of having to do a day's work ahead was, frankly, depressing.

He turned and marched out the door, slamming it behind him just a fraction too hard. He didn't look around, and as such missed the look of surprise and, unbelievably, hurt on Sherlock's face.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<br>**


	5. A New Case

**A/N: Actual plot! Wheeeee... Sorry for the slow update, but it's exams week, and although they're not terribly important ones and I hate/suck at revision, I _have_ been revising (shock horror), and also doing the whole 'preparing for end of school' thing. Buuuut, I'm back, and I bring offerings of a new chapter, so that'll appease you all, right? _Right?_  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. I don't own BBC Sherlock. I don't own Sherlock. Don't own Sherlock. S'not mine. Not mine. (I think that's about as short as I'm gonna be able to go...)  
><strong>

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><p>"What the hell happened to you?" Lestrade's tone of disbelief was evident the minute Sherlock walked (or, more accurately, limped) into his office, looking purposeful, haughty and distracted all at once – no mean feat.<br>"I had a run in with a man that claimed he was sent by Moriarty. I need the files on the murder victims from this new serial killer."

"Woah, wait a minute." Sherlock watched as Lestrade's eyes moved from the cut on his forehead, not quite hidden by his loose curls, to the painfully evident purpling finger marks around his neck (he'd been unable to find a replacement scarf yet, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to), to the way Sherlock's weight was shifted entirely over his right leg

"Case files. Now. The pattern of the murders is one a week. That means we have six days before the next body turns up. If you don't want that to happen, I need _data_," snapped Sherlock irritably. He had felt hurt by John's short-temperedness that morning, and then confused because he wasn't sure why, and then angry for being confused about something. He'd taken a shower, which had totally failed to wash away the strange, unfamiliar mix of _emotions_ (even the word felt wrong), changed his clothes, and caught a taxi down to the police station.

"You said this guy was sent by _Moriarty_?" asked Lestrade, peering at him. "Moriarty's dead. We found the body, John-"  
>"-ID'd it himself, yes, blah, blah, blah. <em>Files<em>," he demanded, holding out one hand imperiously.

Lestrade opened his mouth to ask more questions, looked at Sherlock, thought the better of it, and handed him the files. "Will you answer my questions when you've finished reading them?"  
>"No, probably not," answered Sherlock absently, scanning the file headings. He could feel his mind whirring, working, tracing connections between the people whose lives were documented inside the folders.<p>

_Nadine Ellenson, found on the steps outside Chalk Farm underground. Female, 21, taking French Literature at the University of London..._

_Nathan Harte, found by the Mornington Crescent tube station. Male, 43, works as a night guard at the Natural History museum..._

_Evanna Carleane, found on a bench in Regent's Street station. Female, 9, lives with her mother, home educated..._

_Samuel Yensene, left by the entrance to Oxford Street underground. Male, 27, married to a neurologist..._

There was no connection. He couldn't see anything, no links. Born in different places, friends with different people, different nationalities and backgrounds, different schools and workplaces, different ages, no common denominator. There was no way of predicting them, despite the pattern to them – every single one of them drowned and then left outside a tube station, the burns on the shoulder and hand, and the starburst pattern directly over the heart. It was a strange symbol, a circle with four long lines extending from it, and then four shorter lines in between. An arrow capped the line that pointed up, towards the head.

There were plenty of ways to identify Moriarty's victims, but not before they were dead.

But Sherlock knew there had to be some way of predicting the murders, they couldn't be completely random – that wasn't how Moriarty worked. It was a game, not a fight. He was looking for the thrill of the chase, for knowing he'd outwitted and outmanoeuvred his opponent, not looking to simply beat him. There _had_ to be a pattern.

And then it hit him.

"Oh, that's brilliant," he breathed, eyes going wide, forgetting Lestrade's presence in the room. "Ruthless, but stone cold brilliant. But, then who would be next...?" His mind whirred, clicking through possibilities, sifting through the newly acquired information. When it stopped, the answer was not a welcome one.  
>"John..." he whispered, eyes flashing. He turned, addressing Lestrade but barely looking at him, staring off distractedly into the middle distance. "I need these files. I will return them tomorrow."<p>

"Wait, you can't just-" objected Lestrade, but Sherlock had already spun on his heel and dashed out of the office. He made his way as quickly as possible through the police station and hailed a taxi outside it.  
>"221b Baker Street, quickly," he told the driver, rummaging in his pockets to try and find his phone.<br>"'Please' wouldn'ta gone amis," muttered the man under his breath, but didn't argue and pulled out into the busy lanes.

Sherlock eventually found his phone. Loathe as he was to use it, he could see no other way to contact John quickly.

_Where's Sarah?_

He drummed his fingers on the fake leather seat, waiting impatiently for an answer. He didn't have to wait long – after about a minute, his phone bleeped at him.

_What? Why? :s_

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. Why, _why_ did everyone question him all the time? Couldn't they see that they just needed to answer the question? His fingers skipped across the keys.

_Where is she?_

And then, after a moment's thought, he sent a second text.

_It's important. Please._

He got a reply within thirty seconds, this time. John had evidently been watching his phone.

_Please is the magic word. :) She's off sick. WHY?_

Sherlock let out a little snarl of irritation, speeding up his drumming on the seat and staring out the window, brow furrowed as he thought quickly.  
>"Can't we go any faster?" he demanded, glancing at the driver, who scowled back.<br>"Sorry, mate, no can do. The traffic's dreadful this morning, they've just started another bunch of roadworks. Might be here for a while."  
>He could feel the restless energy, the urge to be out there, <em>doing<em> something, rising within him. He was on the hunt, fresh on the scent of a case, and he should be out tracking Moriarty down. Instead, he was stuck in a taxi, in a traffic jam.

_Call her. Please._

If tagging please onto the end of his sentences would make John do what he asked without question, then he would do it. He waited, staring out of his window at the unmoving traffic, hands held in his lap and curled loosely around his phone. His left hand palm throbbed, aching from the texting that had stretched the scar on it.

It took about five minutes for John to respond. Sherlock's phone buzzed in his lap, beeping slowly. He picked it up, answered the call. "John. Did you manage to get hold of her?"  
>John's voice made it obvious he realised something was wrong. "Sherlock, what's going on?"<br>"Just answer!" he snapped, some of his frustration making his voice sharper than he'd meant. Stress and adrenaline was making him feel jumpy.

"I tried her home phone, and her mobile. Twice. ...No answer. I talked to the receptionist, and she said Sarah never actually _called_ in sick – there was only a text. No one's talked to her since last night. Sherlock, _what_ is going _on_?"

Sherlock hesitated. He knew telling John that Sarah was probably in Moriarty's grip as they spoke, that she was going to be the next body found outside a tube station entrance, would not help his concentration – and he need John's concentration, needed him to help.

"...I think she might be the next victim," he said, slowly, for once carefully choosing his words. "I've found the pattern."

He could almost hear John freeze on the other end of the line. After a moment, there was a shaky exhalation that sent a low rush of static across the phone line, and a quiet, "Oh god."  
>Sherlock kept silent, not knowing what to say.<br>Eventually, after a long, long moment, John spoke. His voice was deceptively even and calm. "What's the pattern?"  
>"It's complicated, I can't explain it, I need to show you. Meet me at the flat as soon as you can. I'm on my way," he cast a glance out at the traffic, "but I may be some time."<p>

Another exhale of breath. "Okay. I'll get there as soon as I can. Sherlock...?"  
>"Yes?"<br>"We've got six days, right? Six days to find Sarah. The murders are one a week, yeah? We'll find her. Won't we?"  
>Sherlock hesitated, completely unsure, for once, of what to do. He was not used to other people trying to lean on him for emotional support. "Hopefully. We know the pattern now, know who we're up against. I'm not going to let Moriarty win again, John." He paused. "I'll do everything I can." He hesitated again, reluctant to speak the words he knew he had to – they weren't ones he said lightly. "...I promise."<p>

"Thank you," whispered John, almost too quiet to be heard, and then he hung up.  
>Closing his eyes, Sherlock leaned back into the seat, sighing. He didn't bother trying to hurry the driver along again – the traffic was almost static. He'd made a promise to John. Promises weren't something he made lightly, and the few other time she'd made promises had not ended well. He hoped that wasn't some kind of a portent for this case – he could already see the case notes, floating behind his eyelids.<p>

_Sarah Parsons, found on the steps of Marble Arch tube station. Female, 27, medical professional, owns a tank of tropical fish..._

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<br>**


	6. An Unwelcome Visit

**A/N: Yay! Exams are all over! Updates should be faster now (if I remember them...). Anyways, sort of more plot this chapter. But mainly John being awesome, which is like plot, but better.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
><strong>

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><p>John had been in the flat for fifteen minutes when Sherlock finally returned. He looked a strange cross between irritated, presumably from the inordinately long taxi ride, and excited, because of the case and – John's stomach swooped as he thought it – Sarah's kidnap. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and then focused on not spilling boiling water all over himself as he finished off his cup of coffee. Usually, he disliked drinking more than one cup a day, as the caffeine made him feel jumpy and on edge, but he figured that today he had an excuse.<p>

Sherlock started talking as soon as he got into the room. "Good, you managed to get back," he said, pulling his coat off and hanging it up, barely glancing around. John kept silent, just quietly handed him a cup of tea. He could feel Sherlock's eyes tracking him as he walked across the room to deliver the second cup of tea (when he'd become some sort of housekeeper, he wasn't sure). He handed it over, and then stepped back, cradling his own mug of coffee and waiting for the explosion.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and then narrowed as they fell on the visitor."_You_." He spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He whirled around, turning on John. "Why did you let him in?"  
>John shrugged, glancing at Mycroft, who merely smiled slightly and took a sip of tea. "He was already in here when I arrived." He had the look on his face of a man who has given up asking questions, simply because they don't get answered.<p>

Sherlock threw a dirty look at his brother and pointedly ignored him, putting the case files he held under his arm in a haphazard pile on the mantelpiece, pushing them towards the wall to stop them from falling off. Eventually, he spoke. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"That's rather rude." Mycroft's tone was one of carefully constructed offence and sorrow. "I only came here to have a chat with my little brother. Is that such a crime?"  
>"When it's you? Yes. And I'm not your little anything. Go away."<br>Mycroft sighed, looking frustrated. Evidently, he'd had this conversation many times before and knew how it was going to end. "Sherlock, please-"  
>"Go. Away." Sherlock snatched up his violin from the coffee table, settled down on a chair as far away from Mycroft as possible, and began playing as loudly and obnoxiously as possible – determinedly not looking at his brother.<p>

"Sherlock!" The sudden natural, demanding authority that flooded Mycroft's voice made even John look round. "Listen to me!"  
>Sherlock's playing paused for a second, barely anything, but enough that John was sure the authority had caught him too, controlled him for just a split second before he'd managed to shake it off. He was listening.<br>"I know what those case files hold. I know the case you're working on. I know all about the attack on you last night-" His eyes roved over the bruises on Sherlock's throat and the dark crimson cut on his forehead, almost covered by his hair.

"Do you know who the attacker was?" Sherlock interrupted, still refusing to look at Mycroft.  
>"No. Don't interrupt, it's rude."<br>Sherlock completely ignored the admonishment. "Pity. The one useful bit of information you could possibly have provided, and you don't have it. Evidently your reach isn't as far as you claim it is."

John admired Mycroft's apparent self-control, and the level tone of voice in which he continued speaking. Usually, this far into arguments with Sherlock, he was ready to punch something – preferably Sherlock himself. "I know what's going on, Sherlock, and I'm asking you to leave this case alone."

Now it was John's turn to interrupt. "Oi, wait a minute. My girlfriend's just been kidnapped, and that's something I feel rather strongly about, in case you hadn't bloody well noticed. I've got more faith in Sherlock finding her than the police, so you'd better have a marvellously good explanation as to why you're trying to stop him from helping."

Mycroft smiled at him in a manner uncomfortably similar to that of an indulgent parent towards a child who has just asked a particularly stupid question. "I appreciate your concern, John, and your faith in my brother is gratifying – if possibly rather dangerous. I am doing everything I can to locate Ms. Sarah Parsons – and, more importantly, Moriarty." He held up a hand to forestall John's protests. "I am afraid that, from the point of view of national security, finding Moriarty is rather more of a priority. However, I am doing all I can to make sure she is found unharmed."

John snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, it's really obvious you're from the government – you talk a load of bullshit, just like them."  
>Sherlock was smirking in the corner, and had even quietened his torturing of the violin to listen to the argument. "Told," he said quietly to Mycroft, smile growing wider.<p>

Mycroft's smile seemed rather tight around the edges as he addressed John again, frustration beginning to show through the edges as he was meet with hostility by both men. "I'm not _from_ the government, John. I _am_ the government."  
>"You could be the bloody queen of Sheba for all I care. You're still talking bullshit." His tone was level, measured, but his eyes were blazing with a fierce, protective fury as he stared at Mycroft, the pair locked in a silent battle of wills.<p>

Mycroft was the first to look away. When he did, John relaxed, some of the furious power he'd gathered leaving him. He may not have had the advantage of a suit and tie and the ability to kidnap random people off the streets like Mycroft did, but he still had an alarming amount of authority under his control, carefully honed from his time in the army.

"Well," said Mycroft rather sniffily, carefully placing his undrunk cup of tea on the coffee table and standing up, picking up his umbrella. "I can see the pair of you are determined to ignore my advice and offer of help-"  
>"Yes, we are." Sherlock waved his violin bow, brandishing it at Mycroft as he made to leave.<br>"-so I shall leave. But Sherlock? You may have worked the pattern out, but I rather think you fail to see the full implications of it." He paused, face running through a series of expressions in under a second before becoming perfectly unreadable again. "...Be careful, little brother. I rather think you've filled your quota for near-death experiences for this year."

"For this year? Good god, I think I've done mine for about a life time," muttered John, shaking his head, and failing to see Sherlock's eyes dart suddenly sideways to him and then back to Mycroft. As such, he was surprised when Sherlock placed the violin down, oddly gently, and actually walked up to his brother, catching his arm as he went to leave.

"You think I haven't noticed?" murmured Sherlock, almost too low for John to make out – which was probably his intention. "You think I don't realise where this is going? Of course I do."  
>"Then why-"<br>"Because..." Again, Sherlock's eyes flicked sideways to John, and then back to Mycroft. "I made a promise," he said finally, voice barely audible.

Mycroft shook his head, not in anger this time but in resignation. "You always were the foolish one."  
>"And you always worried too much." The grin Sherlock threw him had too many teeth in it to be friendly or, for that matter, entirely human. He retreated to his seat again, and picked up his violin. "Get out."<br>Scowling, Mycroft left without a word.

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	7. An Obvious Pattern

**A/N: Okaaaay. New update, yay! However, the chapter after this may be the last one in a few weeks - I'm off to France and will have no internet. Fear not, I won't have forgotten you! I just won't have a computer. :) Anyways, enjoy the chapter. Finally, an explanation about the mysterious pattern of murders. Well done to the person who got it right (have you been reading this over of dA? If not, you're amazing), and see if the rest of you can guess the next bit in the puzzle: what Mycroft meant in that quiet conversation with Sherlock...  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>The door closed, and John dropped onto the recently vacated sofa and buried his head in his hands. After a minute or so of silence, filled only by the quiet strains of Sherlock's violin – much more melodious now Mycroft had left – John finally found his voice again.<br>"Please tell me he was joking about the government thing."  
>The violin stopped, and he heard Sherlock snort with amusement. "Of course he was."<p>

John relaxed slightly.

"More accurately speaking, he's the United Nations, a handful of other international coalitions, a few dozen minor countries, the CIA, _and_ the British government." Sherlock sniffed disapprovingly. "He always did like to show off. Really, one major island should be enough for anyone, but _no_. He wanted to impress mummy."

John decided that facial expressions had probably failed him several seconds ago, when he passed the 'are you sure this is actually real life' state of shock, and instead settled with a low groan of despair and resisting the urge to bang his head repeatedly against a wall. "I'm dead, aren't I? He's going to send ninjas to assassinate me in my sleep or something, isn't he?"

"Probably not, if only because he wants to keep me happy. I'd be rather... _displeased_ if he killed you." There was a dark note to Sherlock's voice, and it made John lift his head, suddenly more nervous about the consulting detective with a violin that couldn't pay the rent than a man who represented the might of the entire British government.

"Anyway! Sarah."  
>And then the moment had passed, and John was sitting up properly and shaking away the cringing embarrassment and mild fear. Sherlock was pacing up and down the length of the living room, hands pressed palm to palm and held under his chin in his 'thinking pose'.<br>"Right, Sarah," said John, attempting to pull his thoughts into some semblance of order. "You think that she's been kidnapped by Moriarty."

"_Thought_," corrected Sherlock, not glancing at him or ceasing his pacing. "I now know she has. Mycroft's visit, along with his comments, have confirmed my suspicions."  
>"Oh god." John ran a hand across his face, looking tired. "I never wanted her to get dragged into this. I mean, I suppose I was fair game for kidnapping, but <em>her<em>... shit." He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.  
>Sherlock stopped pacing, looking at his friend with something as close to worry as John had ever seen.<p>

"No, no, I'm fine," he sighed, waving a hand in Sherlock's general direction. "Carry on with your pacing or whatever. I don't suppose me asking how you worked it out would give me an answer I had any chance of understanding?"  
>"Yes, actually." Sherlock walked over to the mantelpiece, retrieved the files, and handed them to John before resuming pacing. "Look at the names, and the places the bodies were found."<p>

"Nadine Ellenson, Chalk Farm station, Nathan Harte, Mornington Crescent station, Evanna Carleane, Regent's Park-" He stopped suddenly, looking up, fingers crinkling the paper as his hands tightened around the files in frustration. "I don't get it, there's no link, Sherlock. Or none that I can see, anyway. Care to enlighten me?" His voice turned slightly sarcastic with annoyance.

Sherlock pointed to the coffee table, not stopping his relentless back-and-forth motion across the room – and then suddenly pausing, wincing and holding his left leg slightly off the ground. It was evidently still stiff, and while it had evidently loosened up since the morning, pacing was probably not doing it much good. "There should be a tube map on there somewhere. Look at the names again, and where the bodies were found – not the _places_, but the _directions_."

John looked at him in concern, and then sifted through the sheaves of junk mail, old bills, paper scraps and various assorted objects until he found a battered, dog-eared tube map. He wondered why it was there – Sherlock never used the tubes, had point-blank refused to go anywhere near them when John had pointed out that it would be easier and cheaper than taxis.

"Okay," he said, finger tracing over the map as he re-read the files. "Nadine Ellenson, which would be... north. Nathan Harte, and, and, north east. Evanna Carleane, Regent's Park, so she would be east. Sherlock, I still don't-"  
>"Connections, John! Look for the connections!"<br>"Yes, yes, the bodies are being left at tube stations around various points of the compass, but Lestrade's already-"  
>"Oh, come on!" Sherlock whirled around, marching over to John, towering over him. "I have far more faith in your deductive capabilities than Lestrade's, so please, <em>please<em> prove me right and use your _brain_, John!"

John let out a hissing breath through his teeth and stared down at the names again. "Nadine Ellenson, north... _N_adine Ellenso_n_... _N_athan Hart_e_ for north-east... Oh god, that's brilliant!" He looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and felt a small jolt of happiness at the grim pride in the consulting detective's expression.

"Yes, quite. Well done. The first and last letters of the victim's full name, making up the abbreviation of the direction in which their body is found. I rather suspect that the starburst we thought was some ritual pattern is actually a stylised compass, with the arrow indicating north."  
>"But why the tube stations?" asked John. "I get that they're for the directions, but why all tube stations?"<p>

"I doubt they have a particular significance. They're public, busy places – Moriarty's making a statement that he can get to anyone, anywhere, and leave bodies in heavily populated areas without getting caught. It also ensures he gets maximum publicity for his murders before the police turn up and hush everything up." Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. "Show-off."

"And then Sarah," said John slowly. "_S_arah Parson_s_. She's going to be south, isn't she?"  
>"Yes. I suspect he intends to leave her at Marble Arch station – although now we know the pattern, he may have somewhat more difficulty with that than previously." A slow, vicious smile spread across Sherlock's face, a strangely out-of-place expression. "Although we still don't know where he keeps the victims, he doesn't kill them until right before leaving their bodies at the station, so we have six days to find his hideout."<p>

"He'll probably change it each time," said John, feeling the oncoming headache receding slightly as the adrenaline of the chase kicked in and sharpened his thoughts, sent blood rushing through his body and making his energy spike. He suddenly understood Sherlock's restless pacing, felt the same lightning energy the detective must have been feeling. "He's not going to stay in the same place, and risk being caught by the police each time. He'll want somewhere close to where he plans to leave them, somewhere not heavily populated with at least a few out-of-use buildings. Probably not residential."

"Yes!" Sherlock threw him another smile. "That narrows down the possibilities considerably, although still not enough." He paused, and his brows drew down into a frown. "I'm afraid this might need some level of co-operation with the police. We need their manpower, I rather think – and I suspect Lestrade will demand an explanation from me when I return the case files."

"Since when have you ever listened to Lestrade's demands?" asked John, lips quirking upwards.  
>"Yes, unusual, I know," said Sherlock, sitting down on the sofa next to John and staring into the middle distance. "However, he did once arrest me until I agreed to explain a particularly convoluted deduction., Unfortunately, it worked, and I suspect he may try to use the same tactic again."<br>John snorted, grinning at the idea of a furiously frustrated Lestrade arresting Sherlock for obstruction.

Suddenly, Sherlock was standing again. "Shh!" he hissed, waving an impatient hand in John's direction. He fell silent instantly, and for a moment there was no noise in the flat. And then he heard it – a small, trilling, bell-like sound, mechanical and muffled, presumably coming from a drawer somewhere. A phone.

"What-" he started, but Sherlock shushed him irritably again, one finger to his lips, and was stalking across the room to a cabernet in the corner. John tried to remember what was in it, but other than a few DVDs and books, he couldn't think there was anything important – and there'd certainly never been a _phone_ in there.

Sherlock hesitated in front of it, looking almost apprehensive, and the reached out and pulled the drawer open. The shrill ringing suddenly increased in volume, almost seeming to echo in the silent room. He reached into it, shuffling around for second, and then stopped abruptly as his fingers closed around something.

John stood up, meaning to go over, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, and pulled his hand out. His fingers were curled around a pink-cased iPhone, forgotten and abandoned months ago, before the pool incident. John stared at it, mouth half open in confusion and alarm.

Face perfectly calm, empty of emotion, Sherlock hit the 'accept' button and brought the phone up to his ear.

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	8. An Inevitable Conversation

**A/N: You can thank CountryGrl for this update - I recieved her lovely reviews and, despite the fact I'm in the middle of France with no laptop of my own, managed to gain access to a computer with internet, because I'm just a ninja like that. Anyways, I'm typing with a French keyboard, which is bloody confusing, so I won't say anything else. Enjoy the chapter!  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>He didn't need to ask the caller what their name was. "Moriarty."<p>

"You kept my phone!" He sounded delighted. "Hello Sherlock. Did you miss me?"  
>Sherlock decided to ignore the question – he wasn't entirely sure how to answer. "What do you want?"<br>He could almost see Moriarty pouting. "So that's a no to missing me, then? How sad. I've missed you _terribly_. And I only wanted to chat; it's been so long since we've talked. I've been awfully bored."

Rubbing his eyelids with the heel of his palm, Sherlock tried not to sigh. Circular conversation annoyed him, and Moriarty was a master at it. "Where's Sarah?"

"Ooh, you spotted my pretty pattern! Pity, I'd hoped it might distract you for a _bit_ longer. But then, I really should have known better – how could I have hoped to compete with the _great Sherlock Holmes_?" His tone soured on the last words, dropped the overenthusiastic excitement and took on a dark, mocking edge.

Sherlock shook his head, pacing down the room and a bit further away from John, who was looking at him quizzically. "Stop playing. We both know Sarah's not really who you're after – she's just a distraction." There was a sharp intake of breath on the other phone, but Sherlock didn't give Moriarty the chance to speak. "And, before you ask, the answer's no."

An infinitesimal pause before Moriarty replied told Sherlock more than words ever could. The consulting criminal was surprised. "_Two_ steps ahead. Oh, _well done_. But... no? Are you sure? I've got no particular interest in this... well, frankly rather pathetic specimen of a human being. But you," Moriarty breathed, sounding disturbingly dreamy, "Oh, Sherlock, you would have been my _pièce de résistance_, my masterpiece. You would have been _beautiful_."

Sherlock flinched at the words, a cold trickle of fear running down his spine. Moriarty sounded more than sadistic – he sounded _deranged_.

"What a shame," said Sherlock coldly, fighting to keep his voice level and emotionless. "But you can't really have expected me to agree to it. I mean, endangering a king to save a pawn? Anyone knows that's not how you play chess." He ignored the questioning look John sent his way.

"True, true." Moriarty sounded thoughtful. "But you're not playing the great game anymore, are you, Sherlock? You're _living_ it. And there's a biiiiig difference." He paused. "You see, I've found your heart. And it happens to have a helpfully easy-to-kidnap girlfriend wandering around, a weakness just _waiting_ to be exploited."

Sherlock froze. "She means nothing to me, you're wasting your time."  
>John threw him a furious glare, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then shut it again with a visible effort. He sat heavily down in a chair, and contented himself with glowering at Sherlock. Sherlock forced himself to ignore the look of angry hurt on John's face.<p>

"Ah, but she means something to John, doesn't she? And you... you'd do _anything_ for him. Y'see, Sherlock, it's all very well protecting yourself by only caring about one person. But then, if that person cares about other people... well, you can see where I'm going. I can hurt you without ever touching John. There's an endless supply of people he cares about that I can blackmail him, and by extension you, with."

The smug, self-satisfied note of triumph in Moriarty's voice made Sherlock's free hand curl unintentionally into a fist. He winced, and had to loosen his fingers when it tugged at the scar on his palm. Sherlock's silence was as good as a confession. Moriarty knew he'd won.

"Sherlock," he murmured, voice alarmingly tender and understanding. "I'm only going to make this offer once more. I will let Sarah go, if you give yourself up as a willing hostage. What do you say? Think carefully; if you say no..."  
>Sherlock swallowed, thoughts flashing through his mind, scenarios, possibilities. And then, suddenly, he remembered.<p>

_"I'll do everything I can. I promise."  
>..."I promise."<em>

His shoulders slumped, eyes closing and hand tightening convulsively around the phone, his breath huffing out of his chest in a long sigh. "Yes."  
>"Yes?" Moriarty's tone of glee was infuriating, but Sherlock didn't have the emotional capacity to be angry. He felt exhausted, drained, like someone had suddenly hollowed out all the emotions that he'd steadily been accumulating since he'd met John. He hadn't realised how... empty it was without them.<p>

"Yes. Where?" He kept his voice quiet, and his sentences short.  
>"Aww. Giving up so soon, Sherlock?" The stony silence that greeted his words was answer enough. "Shame. And Hyde Park, in, ooh, half an hour, say?"<p>

"_Where_?" snapped Sherlock, patience waning.

"You're boring when you're sulking, you know. I think that Hyde Park's specific enough, don't you? I'd rather you didn't get it into your head to bring any, ah... backup. That would make me very upset. Maybe upset enough to accidentally shoot a couple of people." He seemed rather happy at the thought.  
>"...I understand."<p>

"Okay then, see you soon!" Moriarty sounded as if he'd just agreed to meet Sherlock for lunch somewhere. "Oh, and Sherlock?"  
>"What?" he snapped, irritation getting the better of him.<br>Moriarty laughed. "Try to cheer up a bit, will you? It'll be no fun if you're all grumpy."

The line went dead.

Sherlock had to force his fingers to uncurl from around the phone, and dropped it. It fell to the carpet and bounced, tumbling under a chair. He crouched down to retrieve it, movements mechanical as he tried not to think about what he'd just agreed to. He suspected if he allowed himself to dwell on the fact he'd just voluntarily handed himself over to a cold-blooded psychopath, he couldn't be able to hold back all the emotions he'd managed to temporarily wall up. For the first time, he wished he'd never met John; wished he still had the ice cold self control he'd had before.

After retrieving the phone he stood up, pocketing it. He turned to face John, to explain the situation, and was met with a rapidly moving fist. He staggered backwards, hands flying up automatically, but too late, to protect his face. Blood dripped from his right nostril, leaving a small crimson track down his face, cutting his lip in two

"She may not mean anything to you," snarled John, voice angrier than Sherlock had ever heard, "but she's my girlfriend, and she means rather a lot to me. Show a little fucking _respect_, you freak!" He looked like he was restraining himself from lashing out again, and Sherlock realised – amidst the confusing mess of _emotions_, shock and hurt and betrayal and deep, aching sadness – that he'd made a huge mistake. Possibly an irreparable one.

He half-opened his mouth to explain, to tell him that wasn't what he'd meant, to actually _apologise_ – and then he wondered what the point was. He couldn't explain; John wasn't exactly in the mood to listen right now. Besides, he was going to be dead in probably just over half an hour, or at least well on the way to it. Instead, he glanced at John with blank eyes, before turning and walking past him, heading for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" growled John at him, moving forward slightly, hands still curled into fists and arms half-raised. Sherlock didn't answer, and tried not to flinch away from John. He raised a hand and wiped away the small trickle of blood, at the same time pushing his emotions further and further back, locking them behind more walls. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was _feel_; he couldn't handle it, didn't want to. He slipped out of the door, letting it shut behind him in John's face.

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	9. A Reluctant Exchange

**A/N: Waaaaah, sorry for the delay in update and leaving you on an evil cliffhanger! I was in France, and then my dad'd taken my laptop charger so I had no battery, and then... well, to be honest, I'd forgotten all about it. =.= Sorry! But, there's more now. :) So 'tis all good.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>The walk to Hyde park took twenty minutes, with not a taxi in sight – not that Sherlock would have taken one if he'd seen one. He needed to think, to clear his head, and the sharp London air was certainly doing that. Although the rather pathetic flutter of snow they'd received the night before had long since melted, the air was still bitingly cold, each gust feeling like it had claws, and more snow was predicted during the night and the following morning.<p>

Despite the fact it was barely seven o'clock, darkness was already well settled in, dirty yellow street lamps flooding the pavements with warm light, creating static shadows that clung to the walls and doorways like cobwebs. The almost oppressive atmosphere that lingered despite the lamps' best efforts didn't bother Sherlock; he barely noticed them, absorbed in his own, calculating thoughts.

They ran around madly, taking him in endless circles that went nowhere, gave him no new insight into the situation, no sudden rush of comprehension, no brilliant plan to escape the trap he'd walked blindly and now willingly into. There was no way out that he could see; every possibility ended in death, whether for him, for Sarah, or for both. The game was no longer about trying to stay alive – it was about damage control, minimising the range of the imminent explosion.

For that, the best-case scenario was giving himself up, resulting in his own death, most likely slow and painful, at the hands of Moriarty. At worst, if he refused, Moriarty would kill Sarah, and continue to work his way around the compass, and then start another game, and another, until he eventually got hold of Sherlock after killing god-only-knows how many other innocent people. And if that happened, John would never forgive him.

It took about twenty minutes of brisk walking to reach Hyde Park. He slipped unnoticed through the main gates, just another Londoner who worked strange hours or wasn't in the mood for staying at home. There were still a few people around; a couple sitting huddled together on a bench, a stressed-looking woman dragging a crying child down a path, a group of teenagers talking too loudly, a man in a thick coat walking slowly with his hands in his pockets...

Sherlock read each of their life stories in a glance, barely enough to interest him for more than a second. Still, he felt a sudden envy for them, for their ability to sit there and not know everything, to not be distracted by the stories and patterns unravelling around them every second, for having no greater choices and responsibilities than their jobs and food choice. To not have a person's life resting on their shoulders.

He didn't slow down as he walked through the park, but continued striding down the paths, not caring where he was going or if he got lost. Moriarty hadn't given him a meeting point, so he assumed the consulting criminal had some way of finding him, or was watching him. He shivered, both from the thought and the cold; he was beginning to regret leaving his coat behind as the temperature dropped even lower, the last of the sun's warmth being leached from the ground by the night.

It took seven minutes of restless pacing down increasingly smaller and less defined paths before his leg finally protested and he had to stop, leaning against a tree and bending his knee slightly to reduce the angry ache. Some of the frustration had burned off – Sherlock was not used to being helpless, and did not find it a particularly pleasant sensation – and instead had been replaced by resignation and a cold sort of anti-anticipation. It wasn't quite dread or fear, but something subtler and more insidious.

"Sherlock!"

The cry, which was rather definitely feminine, and therefore not from Moriarty, made him raise his head in surprise. He caught a glimpse through the shadows of a rapidly-moving shape, and then Sarah was suddenly in front of him, arms wrapped around his back and face buried in his shirt, shuddering and gasping for breath.

"Oh, god, Sherlock, that man- Moriarty- he, he, I couldn't- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-" She seemed to run out of words and instead squeezed him tighter, her breathing slowly evening out as the hysterical fear subsided. Sherlock, after the initial shock of human contact, had ignored her other than absently patting her shoulder somewhat awkwardly. His eyes were occupied with scanning the other side of the path, which faded into darkness and trees, for a glimpse of Moriarty.

It didn't take long. The consulting criminal gave it a minute to stew in tension, and then stepped forward, leaning lazily against a tree and grinning a sharp-toothed, victorious smile. Just behind him another person was hovering, and Sherlock recognised the leather jacket and deceptively relaxed stance immediately – the mystery attacker. He was expressionless, watching Sherlock with ice-cold eyes, something clutched in his right hand; most likely a gun.

"Sarah," said Sherlock quietly, tearing his eyes away from the sinister pair and focusing on her face, gently unwinding her arms from around him and tilting her head up so her eyes met his. "I need you to listen to me very carefully."

Something in his tone must have caught her attention because she nodded, carefully running her thumbs underneath her eyes to wipe away the tears and straightening her back, regaining some of her composure. "I'm sorry – thank you. I just..."

"I understand," said Sherlock, because at that moment he thought he might have some idea of the maelstrom of emotions whirling through her, an antithesis to the ones he himself was currently experiencing; her relief and exhilaration contrasting sharply with his dread and fear.

"Listen," he said again. "In a minute, I need you to do two things. First – call John, get him to come and pick you up. Get him to take you to Lestrade, tell the pair of them what happened. Get John to explain the pattern to him – John will understand what I mean," he added, seeing Sarah's confused look.  
>She nodded, watching him. "And the next?"<p>

"...Tell him I said I'm sorry. I was wrong." Sherlock smiled slightly, eyes soft. "Tell him that it's okay, I don't mind."

Sarah looked confused, but she nodded again, still watching him with a concerned expression. "Sherlock?"  
>"Yes?" he asked, eyes no longer on her face – he was scanning for Moriarty again. The criminal was looking impatient.<br>"Why can't you tell John yourself?" She sounded lost, like she already knew the answer but was reluctant to accept it.

Sherlock straightened up with a twisted smile, looking down at her again. "You didn't think Moriarty let you go out of the goodness of his heart, did you?"  
>"But, but-" She looked frantic. "He said he needed me, I'm the one with the name that matches south. Sarah Parsons."<p>

"_S_herlock Holme_s_," he said quietly, and noticed her eyes widen with sudden, reluctant comprehension. "You're not the only one." He turned away from her, walking towards the trees and Moriarty, still keeping his face and movements perfectly calm.

A few steps forward, he paused and turned back to her. "Sarah?"  
>"Yes?" she whispered, pale and red-eyed in the low light, shivering with the cold.<br>"I'd run now. Before he changes his mind." He saw the gratitude in her eyes at being released from the need to do anything, to try and be a hero. She bit her lip, trying to silently communicate her thoughts in a single glance – regret, gratitude, hope, a silent promise. And then she turned and ran, stumbling down the deserted path towards the park exit.

"Run," Sherlock murmured quietly, and then turned away, towards the trees.

Moriarty was suddenly in front of him, still utterly relaxed, the predator's grin firmly in place. "Sherlock, darling. Long time no see, hmm?"  
>"Moriarty." Sherlock inclined his head in quiet respect for the winner of the game.<br>"Now, you've met dear Seba, I believe, but I don't think anyone's introduced the two of you properly. Sherlock, this is Sebastian Morran."

"Ah, the military man. Well done, by the way – you left me very little to work with." Sherlock smiled at him, cold and unfriendly, and got an answering grin that veered alarmingly close to deranged and _hungry_.

"I know who you are, _Sherlock_. And your little friend – very good doctor, isn't he?" Seba's voice was surprisingly quiet, not deep and rough but light and mid-toned. "Treated me in Afghanistan. Did a nice job, I'm told." He shifted slightly, lightly touching his left side, just over the ribs. One hand was still in his pocket. Sherlock saw the telltale shape of a pistol distorting the fabric. No doubt the man had other weapons on his person, but a cursory glance of his jacket and jeans showed nothing.

Sebastian seemed on edge, glancing from side to side – although always keeping half an eye on Sherlock and Moriarty – and running a hand through his short, roughly-cut blonde hair. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, shoulders curled over into a slight hunch that gave him the look of an animal on the hunt; wary, but excited. "Morry..."  
>"Not now dear, daddy's talking." Moriarty waved a hand at him and made a shushing motion before turning his attention back to Sherlock.<p>

"You showed up!" He seemed delighted with that simple fact, circling Sherlock and examining him. Sherlock fought the urge to twist and watch him back – any weakness would, he knew, be pounced on and stored away for future notice.  
>"Obviously," he replied, stretching the first syllable out, unable to keep a dry, sarcastic tone out of his voice.<p>

"Oh, now, now. What did I say about sulking?" Moriarty pouted. "It's boring, and it makes me sad. Don't be jealous because I won – I _always_ win, Sherlock. There's no shame in losing to the best."  
>Seba watched the two, still silent and predatory, but his eyes were amused, almost indulgent, as he watched Moriarty.<p>

"The best?" scoffed Sherlock derisively. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but suddenly no longer cared. He'd already been caught by a psychopath with no self control – there wasn't much he could do to make the situation any worse. If Moriarty wanted to torture him, provoking would be neither here nor there. "Oh, please. A kidnapping? _Bo_ring. The little compass pattern? Obvious. Your final gambit? Rather desperate. I'd hardly call that the best. You're mediocre, bordering on tedious, which I must say I'm rather disappointed by. Considering your rather brilliant performance at the pool, I was expecting something... more."

Moriarty's face twisted into an ugly scowl before he managed to get a hold on his emotions. "Oh, but I got _you_, didn't I?"  
>Sherlock smiled, a smile that, for once, reached his eyes. "It's not me that's the challenge. I'm not that bothered about <em>me<em>."  
>"What do you... oh. How <em>sentimental<em>." He spat the word out like a curse, disgusted. "That's pathetic, Sherlock, really. Letting yourself get _that_ attached, it's always a mistake."

"I don't care." The words had fallen out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he didn't bother to try and take them back. They were perfectly true.

Moriarty stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. "Oh, how low you've fallen, Sherlock. You used to be amazing – second best, as a matter of fact. And all it took was one ex-army doctor..." He shook his head.

"I used to be the _best_," corrected Sherlock, still calm and poised, somehow, despite the rabbit-fast beat of his heart that he couldn't quite control. He could smother the fear with rationality, but it was still the fear his body listened to. "I beat you at the pool. As to whether I'm now second best, well..." He shrugged lazily. "Let's see how this little game ends before we conclude that, shall we?"

Moriarty actually _snarled_ at that, unable to keep the anger from showing through. "Very well," he hissed. He turned, looking to Sebastian, and his expression softened somewhat. "Seba..."

The man smiled again, all teeth, and slunk forward with a surprisingly graceful motion, advancing on Sherlock and pulling the gun out of his pocket. Sherlock stood perfectly still, despite the fight or flight instinct screaming inside him that a man with a gun was definitely something to be run away from. When Sebastian circled around the back of him, however, his nerve broke and he began to turn.

He found himself unable to. Seba had grabbed hold of his hair and kicked the side of his knee, the exact point he'd attacked before. Sherlock's leg buckled, and he dropped to his knees with an involuntary yelp, twisting and reaching up to try and disentangle the fingers from his hair. The deranged man just laughed, raising the gun... and bringing it down of Sherlock's temple, for the second time in just over twenty-four hours.

Sherlock's entire form went limp in Sebastian's grip after the blow, his eyes rolling up into his head, slumping bonelessly to the ground. The man, still grinning hungrily, let go of his hair, and poked the prostrate body with one foot. The detective didn't even twitch. Moriarty smiled slightly, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

"Night night, Sherlock."

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<br>**


	10. A Helpful Stranger

**A/N: Moar has finally arrived! Sorry for the delay (I feel like I'm saying that all the time now =.=) and thank you for all your lovely reviews! Anyways, enjoy the chapter - this is where the trouble starts kicking off. Well, more than it has already.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
><strong>

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><p>Sarah ran through the park, down the path, not knowing where she was going, just feeling the desperate need to get <em>out<em>. She knew she was weaving from side to side, almost drunkenly, because of the adrenaline and fear, and she could feel the tears brightening her eyes. She refused to shed them – she could cry and fall apart later. Right now, she needed to get into contact with John; Sherlock had told her to. As little as she liked the detective, she trusted him.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" The man stepped backwards, glaring irritably at her as she nearly collided with him and managed to skid to a halt just in time.  
>"I- I'm sorry," she said quietly, distracted, eyes darting around. "Do you know the way to the park exit?"<br>"Hey, hey..." he said, a slight American accent softening the edges of his words. The irritated look faded into one of concern as he saw her red eyes, dishevelled appearance and lack of coat. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm- No, not really," she admitted, swallowing hard. "I've- my friend, he, he's just been kidnapped." She took a deep breath. "Can I borrow your mobile?"  
>"Wha-? Oh god, of course, of course, here." He looked mildly stunned, and rummaged in his pockets with a messy haste born out of alarm. He handed it over to her without hesitation, hovering nervously, hands in his pockets. "Is there anything else I can do? Are you alright? You're not hurt?"<p>

"If you could show me the way to the main exit, that would be great," said Sarah, amazed at how level and steady her voice was. The sudden pressure seemed to have cleared her thoughts, sped them up.  
>"Yeah, of course. This way." The man set off down the path, glancing back over his shoulder in worry at her every few seconds. She quickly keyed in John's number in the old, thick phone and then trotted to catch up as the dialling tone rang in her ear.<p>

"Hello, John Watson speaking," came the bored voice from the other end, and Sarah sucked in a gasping breath of relief.  
>"Oh, god, John, I'm so glad I could get hold of you, it's Sherlock, he-"<br>"Sarah?" The surprise in his voice changed almost instantly to delight. "You're okay! We- I thought Moriarty had taken you...? Thank god you're alright."

She hesitated, not knowing how to reply.

"You _are_ alright, aren't you? You're not hurt?" The alarm and concern in his voice was obvious even through the phone.  
>"No, no, I'm fine. But-" She sucked in a small sobbing breath, eyes closing briefly. "John, Moriarty <em>did<em> take me-"  
>"Then how, what...?" His confusion was evident.<p>

"John, it was Sherlock, he... there was a swap, I didn't know, Moriarty just let me go, and Sherlock, he, and then I had to run and I couldn't do anything and I think he's going to kill him, there was this other man, John, he's _insane_, I couldn't-" She broke off, sobbing quietly down the phone, the tears returning with a vengeance. The man leading her stopped, waiting patiently and looking concerned as she sat down on a bench, hunched over the phone. A woman passing by looked at her in alarm and pity.

"Woah, woah, slow down," soothed John, voice quiet and level – the same voice he used when he was terribly worried about something. "Start at the beginning. What happened?"

She took a deep breath, composing herself again. "Sorry, I just-"  
>"Don't apologise," said John, "just explain – what happened?"<br>"Moriarty took me. He said he needed me for his 'pattern', those murders that have been happening, because of my name – Sherlock said you already knew about that. He kept me in this room, I don't know where, I was blindfolded going in and out. There with this other man, Seba, he called him, he wore this leather jacket and-"

"Yep, met him," said John grimly, and then seemed to realise he'd interrupted. "Sorry, carry on."

"About an hour ago, he – Moriarty – turned up and said there'd been a change of plan. He was so happy, ecstatic. They blindfolded me, bundled me into this van or something, and when we arrived we were at some little back entrance to Hyde park. He led me down these paths, like he was _looking_ for something. And then- then he let me go, just said 'run along now' and let me go, and... and then there was Sherlock right in front of me. He-"

"No," breathed John, so quietly Sarah wondered if he even realised he'd spoken. "Please, _no_."  
>She closed her eyes, feeling her shoulders slump. "He, his name... <em>S<em>herlock Holme_s_. Moriarty had wanted him all along, I'd just been bait, and Sherlock... It was a swap. Me for him. I didn't realise, John, I swear, there was nothing-"

"Christ." John sounded exhausted suddenly, but his voice vibrated with anger. "That _idiot_! He wasn't supposed to go running off and hand himself over to psychopath, that's not what I..." He trailed off, making a frustrated noise.

"He told me to tell you something. Two things," said Sarah quietly.  
>John's tone was instantly alert. "What were they?"<br>"He said to come and get me, that we needed to talk to Lestrade – he said you needed to explain the pattern. And..."  
>"And?" prompted John gently, with a resigned air that made Sarah wonder if he knew what was coming next.<br>"He said to tell you that he was sorry. That he was wrong, and it was okay, he didn't mind," she finished.

There was a quiet, broken noise from down the phone.

Sarah sighed, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and tired – the adrenaline was fading, leaving her feeling hollow, wrung out. She wished desperately she could say something better, more comforting, something even remotely useful instead of an empty, useless apology, but there was nothing to say, nothing to do. She felt helpless, useless and exhausted, waiting in silence for John to speak.

Eventually, he spoke. "Okay, I'm coming to get you. Stay put in the park, I'll meet you at the Albert memorial. Thank you, Sarah, you've been amazing. I'm so sorry you've been caught up in all of this. Again."  
>She laughed quietly, smiling in spite of herself. "I think it's beginning to qualify as an occupational hazard of being around you," she said.<br>John's laugh answered hers, but it was hollow and forced. "Yeah. Okay, see you in a minute." And the line went dead.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	11. An Old Acquaintance

**A/N: Ah, thank you to everyone for your awesome reviews! They absolutely made my day. :) Anyway, over half way now, and on to the exciting bits. I rather liked writing this chapter - Seba is _such_ fun to write. In fact, I think I absolutely loved writing _all_ the chapters after this. XD I've only just realised how short the last chapter was, so here's a longer one to make up for it...  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
><strong>

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><p>Back at 221b, John let out a snarl of furious, helpless frustration. "Sherlock, you <em>idiot<em>!" he yelled to the empty room, fingers curling so tightly around his phone that his knuckles turned white. It was either that or throw the wretched thing at the wall, which would be counterproductive. He needed to be able to contact Lestrade and Sarah.

After a second of raging energy and tension, he slumped down on the sofa behind him, fingers uncurling, phone dropping to the floor. "You idiot." The whisper barely stirred the silence, and John buried his head in his hands, fingers tightening in his own hair. "This is my fault," he murmured to no one in particular, feeling the headache beginning again in his temples. "I shouldn't have hit you, I shouldn't have called you a freak, what did you go and do this for, Moriarty will _destroy_ you, Sherlock..."

He huffed out a breath and sat there for a minute, letting his mind process and giving his rolling, twisting emotions a chance to be heard. And then he stood up again, composure back- his army training served him well in situations like this, the ability to work under pressure. It wasn't like what Sherlock did, being cold and emotionless, but rather being able to let logic override emotions. Clearing the head.

He snatched up his phone, dropping it into his pocket, and then walked over to the draw. He hesitated, for a second, and then pulled out his pistol, slipping it into the waistband of his jeans at the back, where it hopefully wouldn't be noticed. Then he grabbed his keys and walked out the door, pausing only to retrieve his coat on the way. He pulled it on, locked the door, trotted down the stairs, ignored Mrs. Hudson's inquiry as to where he was going, and started walking.

The first call he made was, strangely, to Sherlock's phone. He knew Sherlock never used it, knew that Sherlock was currently in no position _to_ use it, but that wasn't the object of the call. He let it ring to voicemail, and then started speaking. "Mycroft. If you're listening to this, call me. Sherlock's been kidnapped, and I want _answers_." He hung up, hoping that Sherlock's general paranoia about his brother tracking him constantly was correct, and knowing it probably was.

"Taxi!" He waved an arm desperately, flagging over the black cab, and climbed inside. "Hyde park, please. Fast as possible."  
>"Late for a date, are you?" chuckled the taxi driver, pulling away from the kerb.<br>"Mmh," said John non-comittally, not really paying attention and not wanting to get sucked into the inevitable explanations that would follow 'my flatmate's just been kidnapped by a serial-killing psychopath'.

The cabbie now silent, John remembered the second call he needed to make – unsurprisingly, to Lestrade. As the dial tone trilled in his ear and quiet radio babble drifted through the cab partition, he wondered what it was about his life that he had the local police station number on speed dial.

"Hello, this is Scotland Yard police. I'm afraid DC Lestrade is busy right now, but if it's important I can pass a message along." Donovan sounded bored and stressed, which mixed to form a snappish aggression in her voice.  
>"Hey Donovan, it's John." He smiled out of reflex, remembered she couldn't see him, and stopped. "I need to speak to Lestrade, please. It's rather urgent."<p>

"Oh. It's _you_." The hostility dropped slightly, but she still sounded irritable, and there was a note of wary disgust in her voice. "The freak can't even be bothered to call us himself. Huh."  
>John felt anger flare in his stomach and squashed it. "Can I <em>please<em> just speak to Lestrade?" he sighed, not really expecting her to say yes.  
>"He's busy, I already said."<p>

"Look, it's important!" John's temper was rising quickly. He was already stressed as it was, and Donovan's customary mild obnoxiousness was not helping the situation. "I really, _really_ need to speak to him."  
>"Oh, don't trust me take a message?" Any residual warmth in her tone had evaporated. "I <em>said<em>, he's busy. You know, actually trying to _do_ things, like stop serial killers and stuff? Which, I might add, was not made any easier by the fact that you flatmate _stole_ our bloody files."

"Look, they're at the flat, I can get them-" John's last-ditch attempt at courtesy and reasoning was ignored.  
>"We can't all run around London having adventures for a living, you know? Some of us actually have <em>jobs<em>, Watson, can you remember what that's like?" Her voice was snide, but when she sighed, she sounded exhausted. "I've been here for fourteen hours now, so forgive me if my patience is wearing thin."

If he'd been in a better mood, John might have been mildly sympathetic to her. However, he wasn't. He was frustrated, stressed, and running out of patience and time. "Oh, he's working on the serial killings, is he? Well, then, I've got some information he might want to know."

"Really." The sarcastic disbelief in Donovan's voice was so dry it could have been used for kindling.

"Yeah. Tell him that the pattern of the murders is going around the compass – the first and last letters of the victim's full names match the acronym for the direction."  
>He heard a hissed, "Oh," from the other end of the phone, that could have just been a shocked inhalation of breath.<br>"Yeah. 'Oh'. And I know who the next victim is, too. I can also tell you where they'll be left if you don't hand me over to Lestrade _right now_ so that he has a chance of _using_this bloody information!" he almost snarled.

"Who?" The whisper was almost too quiet to hear.  
>"I beg your pardon?" John frowned, glancing up noticing the alarmed look the cabbie was giving him in the rearview mirror. He ignored it.<br>"Who's the next victim?" Donovan sounded almost nauseous with worry, her voice softer than he'd ever heard it.

John sighed, feeling exhaustion and stress wash over him again, dulled only temporarily by the adrenaline and worry. "Well, up until an hour ago, it was my girlfriend. Now it's Sherlock." He resisted the urge to add, 'which you'll probably be delighted about'.

However, instead of the breath of relief or victory that he'd expected, there was a shocked gasp and a quiet, "Oh, _god_." She paused. "It's Moriarty, isn't it? That psycho that blew up the pool. He's the one behind this." John's silence was all the confirmation he needed, not that there had ever been much uncertainty in the first place. "_Shit_. Lestrade!"

There were footsteps on the other end of the phone line, hurried and vigorous whispers of discussion, and eventually the sound of a phone changing hands. "Hello?" Lestrade sounded even more tired than Donovan, and there was a note of suppressed anger in his voice. "Sally said it's important, that you've got answers." He didn't add 'you'd better'. He didn't need to.

John explained about everything, keeping it as concise and factual as he could, automatically slipping back into the style of army reports without even realising it. He covered the files and the patterns, Sarah's kidnapping, the phone call – he _did_ skip over his and Sherlock's argument as much as possible, out of a quiet sense of shame – and then relayed what Sarah had just told him. He didn't mention trying to contact Mycroft; it was likely he wouldn't get a response, and he didn't even know if Lestrade knew of Sherlock's frankly scary older brother.

There was a moment of silence after he stopped talking. John could almost hear Lestrade absorbing the information, slotting it into the gaps, recalculating and looking for solutions. Nowhere near as fast or efficiently as Sherlock, but better than most people – despite Sherlock's repeated dismissals of his intellect, he was by no means stupid. "All right," Lestrade sighed eventually. "I'll meet you at the Albert monument as soon as possible." He let out a small hiss of irritation. "Christ, what was that idiot _thinking_?"

"I think he was trying to honour a promise," said John quietly, shaking his head.  
>"But handing himself over to <em>Moriarty<em>... That man's a lunatic, he'll tear him-"  
>"Yeah, I know, thanks," said John, voice more sarcastic than he'd intended it. "He did blow up a pool on me."<br>"Sorry." Lestrade sighed again. "Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can." He hung up.

John listened to the low, constant beep of disconnection for a moment, thinking, and then pressed the hang up button too, dropping the phone back in his pocket. He stared up at the ceiling of the taxi, mind whirring, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do.  
>"So, <em>not<em> late for a date then?" said the taxi driver hesitantly. John snorted with dark amusement and shook his head, and the driver fell silent again.

"Well, here we are then. That'll be six quid, please." John paid the man in silence, speaking only to thank him, and then hurried off into the park. It took him less than a minute of brisk walking to reach the Albert memorial. Sarah was there, sat on a bench next to an earnest-looking, worried man, who was talking quietly to Sarah.

"Sarah!" he called, running over. She looked up, something akin to fright flaring in her eyes, before she realised who it was and hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder.  
>"Oh, John," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."<br>"Listen to me," he said, gently pulling her away from him so he could look her in the eyes. "You have nothing, _nothing_ to apologise for, understand? It's Moriarty that should be apologising."

She smiled slightly, the emotion not reaching her eyes, which remained scared and frightened under the relief. "I don't think that's going to happen," she said softly, wrapping her arms around him in an attempt to stabilise her emotion, anchor the inner turmoil with a solid, human presence. John understood, didn't mind, just stood there gently stroking her hair.

"Um, hi? I'm Richard..." The man had waited quietly until Sarah and John had stopped talking, and now stood up and proffered his hand to John.  
>"He's been very helpful," said Sarah almost encouragingly, letting go of him and standing next to him.<br>"Hey, I'm John. Thanks, I owe you one." He shook the man's hand.  
>"No problem, no problem. It's an awful situation, I'm so sorry..." He trailed off, looking awkward and sympathetic.<p>

"Hopefully, it won't be a situation for much longer." John angled his body to include Sarah in the next statement. "DI Lestrade should be here soon, so you need to stay put here and wait for him."  
>"...'You'?" said Sarah, sounding mildly suspicious.<br>"Yeah. You."  
>"Where are you going? Wait, if they've kidnapped your friend, do you really think it's a good idea to be-"<p>

"Trust me, I can look after myself," said John shortly, flashing Richard a tight smile. "Where was he... taken?" The word 'kidnapped' stuck in his throat.  
>Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but Richard spoke before her. "We came from that path over there. If you walk for about three minutes and then take the left with the big oak by it, that's where... that's the path Mrs. Parsons came down." He smiled slightly, looking anxious, and for a second John thought he saw annoyance is the man's gaze, but then it was gone.<p>

He nodded. "Okay, thanks. Wait here, Lestrade will be here soon." He turned and set off at a rapid walk, bordering on a jog, ignoring the people that scowled at him as he nearly knocked their shoulders, not waiting to hear a response or be stopped.

He reached what he assumed to be the spot in under two minutes – once the path had cleared of people as he'd gone further in, he'd broken into a run. Down the smaller, branching path he'd found a sort of clearing that the path ran through, where the grass had been flattened by feet and a small scattering of red darkened the tips of the blades. He felt his stomach turn, but he didn't dare go any closer, for fear of corrupting some evidence that forensics could use to find Sherlock.

"Hello, John."

John started, whirling around, pulling out his gun and casting around for the speaker. It didn't take long. The same man that had ambushed them down the alleyway yesterday night – John wondered how it could possibly have been such a short time ago, it seemed like weeks – was lounging against a tree, a little way towards the main path. His eyes glittered eerily in the low light, alive with excitement, the thrill of the hunt. He was casually pointing at John something that, in a previous life, might have been a pistol, but had since been cannibalised beyond recognition.

"You kept your old army Browning. How... quaint." There were too many teeth in his smile, too much hunger and violent amusement, for it to be human. John had seen that same smile, those same fevered eyes, in far too many people – soldiers, all of them, and usually just before they turned a gun on themselves or their comrades.

It was an insanity, quite unlike the calm moral wasteland that lay behind Moriarty's friendliness. It was an insidious craziness that infected people's brains, twisting their thoughts until their entire mind was warped in its hungry grip. For a moment, John felt a stab of pity for this man, so far gone he didn't even realise he'd fallen over the edge.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" John kept his voice and gun level, eyes never wavering from the blonde man.  
>"You don't remember? He doesn't remember." The man looked mildly disappointed, grin falling off his face, eyes hardening slightly as he stared at John from under a drift of pale hair. "Well, I remember <em>you<em>. John Watson. Army doctor. They used to call you the best, you know? Said you didn't just have a way with the scalpel, but a way with the patients, too."

John inclined his head in a quiet acknowledgement of the compliment.  
>"But you weren't. Good. <em>Enough<em>, were you?" Now there was anger, his voice trembling even though his gun remained steady, never wavering. "Not good enough to save yourself, not good enough to save _me_-"  
>"Morran."<p>

"What?" The man nearly dropped his gun, face turning deathly pale, eyes wide.  
>"Sebastian Morran. I remember you. You used to be one of the best, too." John's voice was sad. "What <em>happened<em>?"  
>"This!" Sebastian's hands were trembling now, and he yanked one side of his jacket up to show an ugly white scar across his ribs. "You couldn't fix it, could you? They didn't get me there fast enough, and you weren't good enough, and they- they sent me back. Home."<p>

He was looking at the ground now, shoulders shaking, gun not even really in the general direction of John any more. "Oh, god." The whisper was so quiet that John wondered if he'd even actually heard it.  
>"Morran-" he began, starting forward, hands held up placating, and then froze as Seba's head suddenly whipped up and the gun was back, pointing at his forehead, eyes suddenly hard and blank, no longer a tremor in his hand.<p>

"No!" he snarled suddenly, luching forward a step. "No! You have nothing to say to me, there's nothing, _nothing_ you can do. Because, you see, they sent me _home_, except it wasn't home. There was nothing for me here, no one, all alone – you know how it is." There was something pleading, desperate in his tone, an entreaty for John to understand, and John nodded, because he _did_ know.

"And then he found me. Moriarty. I didn't realise at first, God knows I didn't realise, but he was so _nice_. And the rush, John, the rush – it's addictive. The adrenaline, the excitement, the _hunt_..." He was grinning now, wild and mad again, eyes alight with a hungry excitement. "It's so _good_." He paused. "You should be glad you found Sherlock. Glad that you didn't end up like _me_."

"You don't have to," said John, although he knew it was a lost cause. "Put the gun down, _help_ me-"  
>Sebastian laughed at that, the sound tinged with a slightly hysterical edge. "Oh, no. I'm in too deep. Too far under to back out now. I'd never betray Morry, <em>never<em>. He's... he's all I've got left."

And, in a strange way, John understood that, too. Understood how Morran had latched on to the first person he'd properly met since the war, the first scrap of excitement. After all, he'd done the same with Sherlock; the thought was like a ball of ice in his stomach. "So, what are we going to do, then?" asked John, smiling pleasantly. "We've both got guns-" he twitched the tip of his slightly, to draw Seba's attention to it, "-and the police will be here soon. It's a public park. People will come across us sooner or later."

Sebastian looked at him, head on one side. "I'm not going to shoot you, if that's what you mean. He hasn't asked me to, and besides, I owe you one. No, I'd suggest that you turn around and leave. _Now_."

John was about to tell him exactly _how_ likely it was that he was going to turn around with a lunatic pointing a gun at his head, but a sudden shout, Lestrade calling his name, distracted him. He turned his head instinctively to the noise, eyes flashing away from Seba for just a moment-

And when he looked back, the man had gone, presumably hidden in the dark shadows of the trees afforded now that darkness was falling in earnest. As he heard the footsteps of Lestrade and company coming closer, all he could do was stare at the spot where Sebastian Morran had been and _wonder_.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	12. A Bloody Meeting

**A/N: Wheee, more lovely, lovely reviews. If I could eat them, I'm sure they'd taste like maple syrup and coconut. ...Aaanyways, we return to Sherlock now, and, um. This chapter gets a bit... well, not violent, but bloody. Nothing horribly graphic, but if blood grosses you out, you should probably skip this one (although that would make me sad). I don't wanna be responsible for temporarily traumatising anyone.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
><strong>

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><p>Sherlock's return to consciousness was slow and disorientating. He slid in and out of a sleep-like state for an indeterminable amount of time, vision fuzzy and hearing buzzing with tinny white noise. He wasn't in pain, exactly, but there was a roiling ache that seemed to fill his head, and made it difficult to think. He lay still, waiting, not able to do much else.<p>

After what he thought was ten minutes but could equally have been half an hour for all he could measure time, his vision slid gently back into focus and the tinny noise faded gradually. Thought was resumed, as opposed to the vague mental wandering that had been happening before.

He tried to get up and inspect his surroundings, which lead to two very important discoveries – one, that moving his head was a bad idea, and two, that he was tied down. The ties were strong, well-secured; from the feel of them, leather or some similar material. He was lying on a table of cool, varnished wood. He could feel it against his back, which led to another discovery – his shirt was missing. He twisted his head slightly to the side, wincing, and saw it crumpled in a corner.

The room was small, its original purpose impossible to tell because all the original furniture had been removed. His table was the only thing in the room, as far as he could tell with his limited range of vision. The walls and ceiling were the ugly yellow-grey colour of uncovered insulation, and the window was neatly boarded over. Sherlock felt fear shiver in his stomach and sighed, looking up at the ceiling. The purple, tasselled lampshade that hung over the bulb there was completely incongruous with the decor of the rest of the room, the only remaining reminder that this room had once been used for something other than a hostage-holding.

Warm light suddenly filled the room, and there was the noise of footsteps. "Ooh, goodie, you're awake!" Moriarty trilled from somewhere out of his range of vision, probably behind the top of his head, where he now assumed the door was. There was a murmur of disapproving noise, and then Moriarty spoke again. "No, no, Seba dear, I'll be fine. He's all tied up, anyway, I'm sure you did a marvellous job with the restraints."

There was more, murmuring, and a sigh. "Yes, go sort it out, I _can_ look after myself you know. _Mother_," he added under his breath. The light disappeared with a squeak of hinges, and Moriarty padded forward to stand next to Sherlock. His eyes were soft, dancing with a quiet delight. His mouth was curved in an indulgent smile, as if Sherlock was a silly child who had wandered off and, now found, needed reprimanding. Sherlock glowered back at him.

"_Someone's_ in a bad mood! Oh cheer up, it's not all bad." He patted Sherlock's cheek and, in a childish display of pique, Sherlock tried to bite the fingers. The slap he received in return made his head ring, and his vision greyed out again for a moment. "Now, now, none of that. I don't like rude playthings – I tend to get bored of them rather quickly."

"Is that supposed to intimidate me?" murmured Sherlock. "Because I'd hate to be the one to break it to you – I'm afraid you're really not very scary."  
>"Oh, no, not <em>intimidate<em> you. Scared playthings are boring too. No, no, it was a warning; the rules of the game, if you will. The longer you stay interesting, the longer you stay alive. Simple, eh?"  
>"Define 'interesting'?" asked Sherlock, trying to keep mild apprehension out of his voice.<p>

Moriarty tapped a finger on his chin, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "Hmm. Fighting, which won't be a problem with you, I don't think. You may be sulking, but you're not broken." The unsaid _yet_ hovered in the air. "Bleeding. Screaming, too, but only for a bit; it gets annoying after a while. Being pretty – although I'm sure you won't find_that_ hard, either. We may have to work on the other two, though." He smiled briefly, and moved out of view. After a second or two there were muted metallic noises.

"I hope you like the room. It's rather nice, isn't it? I've got places like this _all_ over London, they're very useful. I'm afraid this one isn't all done up nicely, but I'm going to have to get rid of it after I'm finished with you anyway, so I thought, what's the point?" There was a _shtick_ noise, and Sherlock couldn't stop the slight, instinctual flinch the noise drew from him. He hoped Moriarty hadn't seen.

"It's marvellous. _Love_ what you've done with the place." His voice dripped with a sarcasm born out of a deep, foreboding fear that he refused to let Moriarty see. "I thought the lampshade was a nice touch."  
>"Ah, you noticed! Yes, it <em>was<em> rather pretty." Moriarty sighed. "My one indulgence of colour. The carpet came with the place, you see – rather stupid colour, too."

Sherlock glanced at the floor, and failed to see anything wrong with the colour. It was a slightly off-cream colour standard to households all across the world. Moriarty must have seen the look, because he added, "Honestly, have you ever tried to get bloodstains out of cream carpet? It's a nightmare! I mean, carpet by itself is bad enough, but_cream_..." He sounded mildly disgusted. "Bah. Some people have no common sense."

Sherlock laughed at that. He couldn't help it, couldn't stop the slightly hysterical laughter that bubbled up in his throat, a blessed release of tension that made his head throb with low pain. It stopped abruptly as a sharp, clean rasping noise sounded from the corner of the room. Moriarty loomed back into his field of view, holding a short, thin knife that glinted beautiful colours in the low, bluish glow of the room, refracting light like a CD.

"Pretty, isn't it?" He smiled, scrutinising Sherlock as an artist would a blank canvas. "You know, I _said_ I'd burn the heart out of you. Now I think I'd rather cut it out. Hearts are supposed to taste quite nice when they're cooked properly." His smile had just a few too many teeth in it, and a hungry edge that made Sherlock wonder, with a rolling sensation in his stomach, if he was actually being serious.

Sherlock gazed at the knife, hypnotised into a strange stillness by the shine, even as fear coiled and twisted in his stomach, clawing at his insides like a wild animal. False calm and frenzied fear warred furiously for a second – and then the knife flashed and began to descend, and the spell was broken.

For all his determination to not give Moriarty the satisfaction of reacting, Sherlock couldn't help tugging at the restraints, twisting sideways and arching his back in a hopeless, instinctual attempt to avoid the steadily approaching pain promised by the knife blade. His eyes were wide and huge, pupils dilated from the low light and fear.

"Shh, shh," murmured Moriarty soothingly, placing one surprisingly warm hand on Sherlock's stomach and pushing gently, making him lower his back down onto the table again. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. That would be silly, wouldn't it? I wouldn't be able to keep you fresh for the next few days, hmm?" He smiled gently, talking softly and steadily, like he was trying to calm a spooked animal.

Sherlock found himself transfixed by the flashing metal as it rested on his chest, directly over his heart. Moriarty smiled slightly, trailing the blade upwards, running it across Sherlock's collarbone, sweeping the flat of it across his neck, touching his lower lip gently with the point, and then bringing down to rest again near his heart, a few inches to the left – never breaking the skin.

He could feel the cold from its thin edge spreading everywhere it touched, turning his frantically beating heart to ice – even as his rational mind shrieked hysterically that such a thing was impossible. He wanted to twist and turn and thrash and lash out, not lie here complacently with death inches from him, but Moriarty's hand was still resting on his stomach, and it felt like that simple gesture was leeching the energy and fight out him.

Instead he lay there trembling, light shudders running across his bare torso as Moriarty pressed the knife down, slowly, almost tenderly, until it broke the skin. A line of red blood welled up along it, adding an eerie crimson tint to the glinting light, and Sherlock had to look away. He turned his head to one side, eyes scrunched closed, and tried to bury his face in the table. There was no pain, just that same, icy cold; his shocked body was still trying to work out exactly what was going on.

That was, until Moriarty began to move the knife again, pulling the blade down and around in a circle over Sherlock's heart – the blade digging deeper through his flesh, scoring lightly over the layer of muscle beneath, bringing more precious blood to the surface. Sherlock bit back a whimper, pressing his face closer to the table, biting his down on his lip as the unnatural tearing sensation continued.

"This is how you get the best effect, you see," continued Moriarty's soothing voice, only half-heard from somewhere above him. "You make the cuts, and then you keep opening them again and again. It makes those nice raised edges you probably saw on my other artworks. Of course, trying to keep the open wounds free from an infection is rather a pain, which is why I use the chlorinated water. Nicely effective as an antibacterial, although I've heard it rather stings."

After a minute the sensation stopped, the biting cold and pain receding, leaving a dull, warm throbbing around his heart, pulsing in time to its beat. Sherlock looked up again, opening his eyes, trying to stop the shivering of his body and not entirely succeeding, but at least managing to get his breathing under control.

He peered down at his own chest, the near-perfect crimson circle inscribed over his heart, and felt another wave of numb shock rush over him as he automatically subdued the fear and disgust that welled up inside him at the sight. Looking up, he saw Moriarty peering down at him, a sympathetic expression on his face.

"You can't keep doing that forever, Sherlock," he said softly, absently raising the bloodied knife to his lips and trailing his tongue along the blade, licking up the crimson drops that still clung to it in a strangely obscene gesture. "Mmh. You taste delicious, by the way. Once you've discovered your emotions, it's impossible to hold them back for long. I know – I tried it." His tongue swiped around his lips, catching a last drop of blood. "Sooner or later, you either break down, or it drives you mad." He cocked his head to one side, looking down at the empty-eyed, shivering consulting detective curiously. "I'm guessing the former, for you. You're already a _bit_ too close to mad." He paused for a second, face darkening. "I wasn't."

Sherlock didn't answer. He closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing slowly and evenly, on ignoring the pain in his chest and the warm drip-drip-drip of blood, his own blood, down his ribs. The fear had been joined by a wild, giggling hysteria, which was even harder to quell. Stress, exhaustion, pain and adrenaline were working against him to widen the cracks in his facade, pulling and probing at his mental walls until they shattered.

"It's okay," whispered Moriarty, stretching out one hand and brushing some stray curls out of Sherlock's eyes. He flinched at the touch, jerking sideways, eyes squeezing shut again, the shaking returning with a vengeance. "Just let go. It's _okay_. I only want to help, Sherlock, I only want to help." Fingers brushed the split in his lip from where John had hit him and then moved back up to his temple, drawing comforting circles there. "No one understands, do they? No one understands _us_. We understand each other though, don't we? _I_ understand _you_."

Sherlock finally found his voice. "Stop it," he rasped, shifting against the restraints again, feeling the panic of being restrained, being forcibly subjected to Moriarty's gentle stroking of his hair, rising up in his throat. "Stop it, don't touch me, _don't touch me_!" The last words came out as a ragged-edged yell, and he twisted away again, pressing into the table again, trying to hide the tears of panic and pain that shone in the corner of his wide eyes. He wasn't strong enough for these kinds of mind games at that moment, couldn't keep fighting indefinitely when he was running on empty – emotionally and physically.

"I only want to help, Sherlock." There was something akin to regret in Moriarty's voice as he placed his hand back on Sherlock's stomach, pinning him down again, and lowered the knife again. "I only wanted to help. Which is more than I can say for your lovely little doctor, hmm? He doesn't want you at all – he thinks you're a _freak_, doesn't he? You're wasting your time with him. At least _I_ appreciate you, Sherlock."

He had no answer to that and, this time, Sherlock had neither the energy nor the inclination to try and stifle his whimpered sobs as the knife resumed its trailing path across his chest.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	13. A Heavy Burden

**A/N: And yet more reviews and favs and all things awesome! I would give you all cookies, but the postage system here is awful and I think they'd probably get stale before they reached you. :( Anyway, we're well over two thirds through now, and the next chapter is the excitingest one (yeah, I know that's not a word, but it looks pretty). As always, hope you like it! (Also, I will try and reply to all your nice reviews, I'm just slow and easily distracted and have, unfortunately a life outside of the internet. Sorry!)  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>John wandered down the stair, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. Two days of going to bed past midnight and waking up early had taken their toll and he felt bone-deep weariness aching through his body – something not helped by the knot of worry curled in his stomach. After the confrontation with Morran and Lestrade's arrival, there had been endless statements take from him, Richard and Sarah.<p>

Questions that didn't have answers were asked over and over in a vague hope that repetition would throw up something new. It didn't. Eventually, at around two in the morning, when John had been slumped in a chair in the police waiting room, hands wrapped around a polystyrene cup of undrunk coffee that had long since gone cold, Donovan had arrived and told him he could go home.

He'd been surprised by both her and Anderson – far from being jubilant that Sherlock had finally gotten his 'comeuppance', they'd both seemed genuinely worried. After having seen Moriarty's work before, with the Greenwich pips and the swimming pool, they both knew what he was capable of.

"Why d'you care?" he'd asked her as he'd pulled his jacket on, leaving the coffee on a side table and wondering absently how long it would take for someone to clear it up. "You hate each other's guts. Why worry?"  
>She'd looked at him, one eyebrow raised, face pale and harried-looking from overwork. "Because if I didn't, I'd be no better than him," she'd answered simply. "And besides, being kidnapped by <em>Moriarty<em>..." She'd shuddered. "That's not something I'd wish on anyone." John had smiled tiredly at her, and agreed.

Now, in the kitchen, the kettle boiling slowly by his hand and toast slowly browning in the toaster, John wondered what to do. He felt at a loss as to where to even _start_ in trying to find Sherlock. He wasn't a genius, wasn't a detective, wasn't with the police... he could _do_ things, could get Sherlock out of Moriarty's clutches, could kill Moriarty if that's what it came to, but he didn't know where they _were_. And he didn't even know where to start looking. The kettle clicked, and the light went off. John sighed, running a distracted hand through his hair, and started pouring the boiling water into a cup, deep in thought.

"Just milk, please, no sugar," said a voice behind him.

"Holy-" He spun around, nearly knocking the cup over and spilling boiling water over himself, hands flying wildly to grab the gun that, yet again, wasn't there. The next thing he knew, his face was pressed against the wall and someone was twisting his arm in an uncomfortable lock behind his back.

He froze, mind racing, and then relaxed, pretending that he had given up. He felt the hold relax slightly too, and he prepared himself to drag his arm free and turn around to give whoever had pinned him up against the wall a piece of his mind when a familiar voice interrupted him.

"Let go of him, Ka- oh, no, that was yesterday. What is it today?" Mycroft sounded bored.  
>"Jessica, sir." John felt the pressure ease up, and then disappear completely, accompanied by a small noise of disappointment.<p>

He paused for a second, composing himself before turning around. He saw Mycroft lounging in one of the chairs, Anthea-who-was-Jessica-today standing behind him and very definitely _not_ looking like someone who'd just shoved him up against a wall and nearly broken his arm. She was busy with her Blackberry but, when she felt him staring, offered him a small, polite smile before resuming her typing.

John glanced at Mycroft, who looked supremely unconcerned, and then shook his head in despairing amazement. He dropped into a nearby chair, abandoning his cup of tea and gazing evenly at the man opposite him. "You do realise that entering someone's house is illegal-"

Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow at him.

"-and even if you have no respect for that, it's impolite and I don't appreciate it." John kept his tone neutral, but he couldn't keep the ice out of his eyes. Mycroft looked at him in what seemed to be mild fascination; John suspected that people didn't stand up to him often and, if they did, it wasn't a mistake they made twice.

Eventually, Mycroft spoke. "I did knock, but you were asleep. And I _was_ invited, you know – I received your message. Very clever, if rather... _impolite_."  
>John ignored the pointed emphasis, and made a mental note not to say anything important over the phone ever again, and also to never doubt Sherlock's paranoia when it came to his brother.<p>

"I assume you're aware of the situation, then?" Even as he spoke, John wondered why he'd bothered saying it – of _course_ Mycroft was aware of the situation.  
>"Naturally. My brother managed, rather unfortunately, to slip his tail, but we caught up afterwards. My man was too slow to stop the exchange-" There was cold anger in his voice, not directed at anyone, just <em>there<em>, "-but he got a good enough look at Moriarty and his associate to identify them. And, of course, he managed to intercept the released hostage and take care of her while he contacted me."

John gaped. "That man, with Sarah. Richard, he- you-" He leant back in his chair, shaking his head in bewildered acceptance. "Right. Okay. Any idea where he is, then?"  
>"If I did, do you <em>really<em> think I would be sitting here now, talking to you, _wasting my time_?" asked Mycroft, in tones of clipped anger; John ignored them, because he recognised that it wasn't really him Mycroft was angry at, but at the situation. John was just a helpful target for his frustrations.

"Sorry, stupid question," he said, offering a small, crooked smile. Mycroft made a small noise of agreement, some of the anger leaving his expression, and then looked up sharply as Jessica's phone made a muted _ding_.  
>"What is it?"<p>

She read quickly, eyes flicking from side to side as she read. When she finished, she looked up, biting her lip. John saw indecision in her face – and then her eyes met his, and the emotion was suddenly gone. She held the contact for a second, as if trying to make him understand something.  
>"News on Sherlock, sir," she said, reluctantly looking away from John.<p>

Mycroft's eyes widened, and he held up a hand. John realised, with a flash of anger, that Mycroft didn't want him to heard whatever it was that they'd found. He opened his mouth to object – and then Jessica's eyes met his again, and a tiny flash of comprehension made him close it. He saw Mycroft turn to look at him and hurriedly broke eye contact with Jessica.

"Well, then, it appears there is business I must attend to. I will probably see you soon, Dr. Watson, hopefully when my brother has been returned safely to us." He smiled tightly, stood up, beckoned Jessica, and swept out of the room.

John stared after him for a second, anger seething in his stomach – as it usually did after any meeting with the elder Holmes – and wondering whether he'd imagined the glance Jessica had given him. He hoped he hadn't; the alternative was that he'd just allowed himself to be locked out of any attempts to find Sherlock, an idea that made him feel ill.

Half a minute passed with him staring absently at the closed front door in pensive contemplation, and then there was the sound of footsteps and a knock. He shook himself, eyes refocusing, and strode forward. Pulling open the door, he blinked in surprise at the sight of Jessica standing there, managing to look urgent and totally calm at the same time.

"Park Lane," she said hurriedly, under her breath. "That's the best I can give you – somewhere on Park Lane. We don't know where yet. Wait ten minutes for us to go, avoid the woman wearing a long, green coat, she's your tail. If you find anything, call us, _please_." She gave him a hard look. "I'm trusting you. Don't make me regret it, and _don't_waste this opportunity."

"Oh god, _thank you_," breathed John, smiling at her in relief – that he wasn't powerless, wasn't being locked out, could finally _do_ something. "How did you get him to let you come back?"  
>"I said I'd left my phone. I can't be long." She smiled too, letting out a small half-laugh. John wondered how often she had the opportunity to defy her employer, wondered what she was risking to tell him this – her job? Her reputation? Her <em>life<em>?

"Thank you. I'll find him, I swear," he said seriously, locking eyes with her. "On my life."  
>She nodded, her eyes sad, but still sparkling with the thrill of defiance. "Oh, I have no doubt that you will, John Watson," she said. "I wouldn't have told you, otherwise."<p>

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	14. A Partial Rescue

**A/N: Ooooh, the excitement starts for reals. (Well, there's been excitement before, but this is the main bit of excitement, anyways.) XD Hope you enjoy it! Also, thank you to my two lovely anon reviewers, Vicki and Anna-Lee. I can't reply to you, but thank you for your lovely reviews anyways! :)  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>"Hello, dear."<p>

And with that, the pain started again. Sherlock wondered if it had ever stopped, really, if he'd only imagined fading in and out of consciousness after Moriarty had left him last time – with the compass insignia engraved over his heart and the wounds wiped carefully with chlorinated water that had burned like a branding iron.

And then suddenly there was a noise, a sharp _crack_, like thunder or snapping bone and Sherlock wondered hazily if the knife had broken something inside of him, if it had cracked his stone heart open, wondered if the warmth on his chest was the blood draining out of it and trickling to the floor, flooding the room with crimson, drowning him in a sea of blurred, red numbness.

Then his eyes fluttered open, swimming into focus through the dark mist of pain, and saw Moriarty's dead, empty eyes staring back at him.

His reaction was instant, visceral. He yelped, struggling violently against his bonds, transfixed and horrified at the same time by the sight of his kidnapper and torture sprawled across his chest, lifeless, a red-rimmed hole in the side of his head. One hand was still wrapped loosely around the knife hilt, the tip still wedged in Sherlock's flesh, just below the heart.

The warm weight of the body pressing down on him, its lifeless, heavy stillness, made him feel sick. He twisted against the straps, whimpering, trying to bury his head in the table again, smearing more blood across his face from the pool of it just above his shoulder.

Abruptly the weight was gone, but the warmth was still there – a pair of hands, soft, gentle, running through his hair and gently touching his shoulder. Someone was calling his name, too, insistently, but the panic was too big for him to subdue and he couldn't stop his terrified movement.

There were angry noises above him, noises that didn't quite translate into words, and the hands moved to his wrists and ankles, trying to get him to stop moving. Sherlock was aware that he was babbling, talking with a desperate, panicked speed. "Oh god no stop it get it off please stop no I can't get it off let go get me out it hurts it hurts make it stop get me out of here-"

"Sherlock," said the voice again, and this time there was a note of authority to it that appealed to his subconscious. "Sherlock, stop."  
>He gradually felt the hysteria subside to manageable levels and the instinctual, uncontrollable thrashing stopped, replaced by a violent trembling that Sherlock wasn't sure he would be able to stop any time soon.<p>

There were more angry noises, which this time filtered through his pain and stress-mangled brain to translate into swearing, and then the pressure around his wrists and ankles increased momentarily before disappearing altogether. The sudden freedom was overwhelming, and only served to highlight his desperate desire to get off the table he was lying on and get somewhere very far away from this tiny room full of the smell of blood and death.

He slid off the table, legs hitting the floor. His left knee, already damaged and now stiff from being held in one position for so long, buckled underneath him with a spiking stab of pain, and Sherlock cried out in surprise, falling onto hands and knees, entire body shaking.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

It was John – his confused mind suddenly recognised the voice and the face that was suddenly in front of him, hands on his shoulders to steady him as the room lurched alarmingly back and forth in front of his eyes, blurring and spinning. He tried to pull himself into a kneeling position, but his chest throbbed and tore at every movement and he ended up swaying forward, slumped against John.

"Shh, shh, it's okay now. I've got you, I've got you, it's all going to be okay, I promise," John whispered, trying to disguise his absolute horror at the state Sherlock was in; broken mentally and physically, bloodied, terrified, in pain.

"John," he whimpered back, burying his head in the jumper-covered shoulder, fingers clutching desperately at the material, smearing a mixture of his and Moriarty's blood all over the cream fabric. And then his self-control gave out entirely and he was sobbing and shaking and laughing, all at the same time, clinging to John like a lifeline.

John stared for a second, frozen at the sight of Sherlock, his friend, covered in blood and so completely and utterly out of control. And then the scene flickered and time asserted itself again, and he was hugging Sherlock back, hesitantly, not wanting to hurt him. He wrapped his arms carefully around the trembling man, hands moving soothingly up and down his back.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured, not knowing what else to say, stroking Sherlock's dark, bloodied curls. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."  
>Sherlock made a noise that was a cross between a hiccup and a snort, muffled by John's shoulder. "Sorry for what? I 'as an idiot, you w're rude, Moriarty's a bastard." He looked sideways, peeking out above John's shoulder and below his own fringe, staring cautiously at Moriarty's body as if he was expecting it to get up again. "<em>Was<em> a bast'rd." He sounded exhausted, words slurring with pain and stress. "W'rall to blame. Mainly Mor'ty."

"Fair enough," said John quietly, still absently running his hands through Sherlock's hair, although he was no longer sure who the gesture was meant to be comforting. It would take a lot more than a few words to relieve his guilt at what he'd said and done.

"How'd y'find me?" asked Sherlock curiously, words even more muffled as he pressed his face further into the fabric, hands tightening again as a sharp bolt of pain shot through him. He'd forgotten momentarily about his injuries in the rush of panic and adrenaline, pushed the constant, throbbing pain to the back of his mind, but now he'd calmed slightly it had returned with a vengeance.

"I bullied your brother into co-operating." He felt Sherlock's wince. "Shit, are you-?"  
>Sherlock suddenly couldn't feel John's hands on his head anymore, which unsettled him more than he expected. "The police should be here soon, I called Lestrade. They should bring an ambulance too." He sounded worried, and resumed his stroking of Sherlock's hair.<p>

Sherlock relaxed slightly as the motion resumed. "You didn't wan' t' wait for th'm?" mumbled Sherlock. He heard John laugh above him, and realised he'd probably felt him relax, and realised the cause of it.  
>"No, they were being too slow. I didn't want to wait, I kept thinking that maybe he'd- maybe you-" He let out a huffed breath, trying fairly unsuccessfully to choke back the quiet tremor in his voice.<p>

"Stupid," mumbled Sherlock, feeling the tiredness settle more and more heavily on him. The trembling slowed, and then stopped altogether as his body decided it no longer had the energy to continue the movement. Although he knew it wasn't a good thing, that sleeping now might be dangerous, it dulled the pain. He couldn't quite bring himself to fight it. "Dang'rous."  
>"Mmh." John's non-commital noise made it perfectly clear he didn't care in the slightest.<p>

Sherlock, falling slowly and steadily towards unconsciousness, and John, concentrating on worrying about Sherlock, failed to hear the quiet footsteps outside the door, or the small whisper of well-oiled hinges. The first they knew about the new arrival was the cry of horror and pain... and the gunshot.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	15. An Unexpected Saviour

**A/N: In light of the... oh, probably twenty-odd _wonderful_ reviews I received that went something along the lines of 'Oh noes cliffhanger! You can't stop there!', I decided I _had_ probably been a bit cruel and that it wasn't really fair to make you all suffer for another week or so (and plus, I rather like this chapter =.=). So, here you are! Enjoy... (Also, if anyone's interested, I was totally imagining Seba as John Simm whilst writing this. XD)  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>The noise of the gun going off seemed almost deafening to John. He flinched, not noticing Sherlock twitching against him, not noticing his cry of pain, automatically reaching for the gun that wasn't there – he'd dropped it after shooting Moriarty, as he'd run to Sherlock. He scrabbled on the floor, reaching for it, and as such failed to notice something very important.<p>

He grabbed the gun and stood up, moving automatically into shooting stance, ignoring the sudden, sharp ache in his side. And then he froze.

Sebastian was stood just in from the doorway, one hand fisted into Sherlock's hair, shaking him, hard. Sherlock was on his knees, yelping, eyes screwed shut in pain, one hand wrapped around his stomach and the other reaching up to try and untangle the hand in his hair.  
>"You killed him!" Seba snarled, almost incoherent with rage, teeth bared. "You <em>killed<em> him, you bastard!" He sounded a cross between devastated, shocked and deranged.

Out of the corner or his eye, he noticed the glint of John's gun, and stopped his yelling, pressing the muzzle of his pistol against Sherlock's temple. The detective went very still, face turning an almost grey colour, eyes closing slowly. His breath was coming in stuttery, uneven gasps, and he seemed to be trying to curl in on himself, both arms now wrapped tightly around his stomach. His face was twisted in pain, and his teeth were gritted. There was a lot more blood around his stomach than there had been before, John noticed with a stab of fear.

"Let go of Sherlock," he said, refusing to lower his gun, sounding a lot braver than he felt, "or I will shoot you."  
>Seba laughed, and it was a deranged sound, completely out of control. He shook Sherlock again and the man actually <em>shrieked<em>, hunching over, trembling. "Oh, no, I don't think so, John Watson. Put the gun down or I shoot him. I'll shoot him! He- you _killed_ him. Morry." His voice dropped to a broken whisper, glancing at the body out the corner of his eye.

John hesitated.

"Down! Now! Or I shoot him. Through the head, this time."  
>John suddenly noticed the pain in his side, realised what had happened; Seba had shot Sherlock at close range, and the bullet had gone straight through him and just barely grazed John's side. As he watched, more blood dripped between Sherlock's fingers. He looked half dead already, skin an inhumanly pale colour, painted with red. His eyes seemed to glow amidst the lack of colour in his face.<p>

"Okay, okay," murmured John soothing, slowly placing his gun on the floor, raising both hands. "Now, let go of Sherlock. Please. He needs medical attention, let me help him-"  
>"I don't think so!" growled Sebastain, grinning madly. "No, no, you get to watch him die. You killed Morry, I kill Sherlock. Simple. See?" He pressed the tip of one shoe against the entry wound on Sherlock's back, and Sherlock let out a low keening whimper, eyes scrunched up tight and tears dripping in gleaming trails down his cheeks. "Ohgodnonono. Stopitstopitstop pleeeeeasenonoithurts-"<p>

Sebastian just laughed, eyes dark and furious and gleaming black in the low light. "An eye for an eye, a heart for a heart, eh, John? Except we were the hearts, weren't we, and it's our bodies that are dying. We're just breaking, hmm?"  
>"For god's sake, let him go!" yelled John, anger coursing through him, nearly obliterating his common sense. "Please..."<br>"Uh, uh! Shhhh," hissed Seba, pressing the gun harder against Sherlock's temple. "We don't want to-"

Afterwards, John would swear there had been a hollow _thunk_, although he was never entirely sure if that had been his imagination or not. Whichever way it happened, Sebastian crumpled, hand loosening on Sherlock's hair, dropping the gun to the floor with a clatter, legs simply giving way. He landed sprawled on the floor, eyes closed. Sherlock fell forward, curling instantly into the foetal position, whimpering brokenly to himself.

John merely stared at the sight of Mycroft standing in the doorway, umbrella raised, his normally amused face sharply furious. "I know it's not really cricket," he said quietly, when he noticed John staring, "but being the government gives you special privileges. Sherlock?" The last word was addressed to his brother. He dropped to his knees, cautiously touching his brother's head, eyes wide with fear. It was the first honest emotion John had ever seen him display, other than exasperation.

John skidded forward, not caring that he ended up kneeling in a pool of blood. He was already soaked in blood, his own and Sherlock's and Moriarty's, so he figured some more wouldn't hurt. "Pulse is still there," he said, feeling the thrumming beat under his fingertips as he pressed them to Sherlock's throat, "but he's lost a lot of blood. He needs an ambulance, _now_."

"Dun' wan'amb'lance, My," mumbled Sherlock, barely audible. "D'let'm take 'e." His eyelids flickered, and he coughed. Blood stained the corner of his mouth, and John's stomach twisted almost painfully with fear and empathy. He looked up and saw his own emotions mirrored in Mycroft's face.  
>"Don't worry, it won't be like last time. I'll make sure of that," murmured Mycroft, one hand resting gently on Sherlock's pale shoulder. "Is the ambulance here, Inspector?" He made it sound more like a demand than a question.<p>

John looked up and saw Lestrade, flanked by a green-looking Donovan, both of whom were staring at Sherlock in blatant horror. "Um, yes," said Lestrade, blinking and shaking himself slightly. "The paramedics are just coming up."

Satisfied, John turned back to Sherlock, running his hand through the dark curls again. Sherlock's eyes fluttered again, opening this time, shockingly blue in contrast to his pale skin. "John?" The word sounded like a cross between a plea and an apology.

"I'm here, I'm here," he said, swallowing. "Don't worry, it'll be okay." He hoped to god he wasn't lying.  
>"...Don't go." The words were little more than a breath. John felt Sherlock's hand nudge against his palm, bloodied fingers knotting loosely with his. "Stay. With me."<br>"I'll stay," promised John. "I'll stay. I'm not going anywhere."

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	16. A Rare Occurence

**A/N: This chapter was terribly interesting to write (and is also part of the promised 'comfort' bit of the hurt/comfort). I do so love the character of Mycroft, he's so wonderfully 3-dimensional. And sulky, hospitalised Sherlock is terribly amusing. Also - there are only two chapters to go after this! O.o It's flown by so quickly. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed and supported me so far - you guys all rock!  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>John sat in the waiting room, exhaustion making his head pound. He knew he'd not had anything like enough sleep over the past three- four days, now, he corrected himself, looking at the clock. It was nearly one in the morning. He scrubbed at his eyes, fighting sleep – the painkillers they'd given him made everything fuzzy and blurred.<p>

After Mycroft's arrival, everything had moved with dizzying speed. Paramedics had come and taken Sherlock, and him once they'd noticed his side, whisking them away to the hospital. Sherlock had been taken away for emergency surgery and, despite his loudest protestations, he'd not been allowed to follow. Logically, he knew that he was too tired, injured, and emotionally connected to be allowed into the operation, but the rest of him didn't want to listen to logic.

He'd been pulled to one side by someone who had bandaged up his side. The bullet, which had gone straight through Sherlock, had only grazed his side and the cut was long but shallow, and not bleeding very hard. He had been lucky, very lucky. Then he'd been given painkillers and the instruction to try and rest, and had been shown to the waiting room.

For the past hour, he'd been sitting on the uncomfortable, obnoxiously colourful plastic chairs, waiting for news of Sherlock. So far, nothing had been forthcoming. He hadn't seen Lestrade, who'd had to return to the station with the still-unconscious Morran and start the investigation proceedings – not that there was much to investigate. He hadn't even seen Mycroft, which was both surprising and not. John suspected that the resources of the British government went above and beyond those of an ex-army doctor, and that Mycroft was already with his brother.

"Uh, John Watson?"

John's head shot up, and he instantly pushed the exhaustion back, forcing his brain into alertness. "Yes?" A doctor was hovering next to him, her hair scraped back into a mousey ponytail.  
>"Mr. Holmes is out of surgery now. He's still unconscious, but his brother has given permission for you to visit." She sounded dubious about how wise this was, but John didn't care. He jumped up from his seat and followed her down the corridor, a cross between dread and relief churning in his stomach.<p>

"Is he okay? What happened in the operation? When will he-"  
>"Mr. Holmes has sustained untreated injuries over a prolonged period of time, and, as I'm sure you are aware, he has been shot. Thankfully, the bullet missed most vital organs, but it clipped the edge of a lung, which was the cause of the blood in the respiratory tract. He has also lost a lot of blood, which complicated the problem-"<p>

John wanted to shake her. "Yes, yes, I _know_. How _is_ he?"  
>She sighed at his impatience, shaking her head, but she seemed to understand. "He's still fairly serious, but he's stable. We've got him on a drip and a blood transfusion, and the sedative should wear off some time in the next half an hour, after which we'll be able to assess the situation properly." She hesitated. "...Look. I don't like making predictions but, as one doctor to another," – she smiled confidentially – "I'd say he has a good chance of pulling through if we can keep him stable through the next day or so. There weren't any complications during surgery, and he should heal well."<p>

John relaxed, shoulders slumping downwards. "Oh, thank god. And thank _you_," he added, smiling briefly at the doctor.  
>She smiled back, gesturing at a door. "Here we are. His brother's already in there. I'll leave you to it – call me if anything happens."<br>John nodded. "Thank you."

Pushing open the door and walking inside, he almost dreaded what he would find. He approached the bed with a sense of dread, coming to stand silently next to Mycroft at the foot of it. Neither man spoke or acknowledged the other's presence, attention focused on the man lying in the bed.

Sherlock did not look peaceful, or like he was sleeping. His forehead was creased into a slight frown, drawing wrinkles between his brows, but other than that his face was blank and expressionless, body almost boneless under the relaxing effect of the sedatives and painkillers he was no doubt pumped full of.

There were tubes leading to two needles in the back of his hand, and there were tubes under his nose. Sensors attached to his chest trailed wires across the backdrop of white bandages and sheets, his dark curls the only splash of colour in an otherwise featurelessly white bed. He didn't look okay, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he looked better than John had expected, and he let out a small breath of relief.

Mycroft was the first to speak, not looking at John. "The doctors say he should be okay." The emotion John had heard in his voice and seen on his face back in the small, bloody room had gone, and both expression and tone were blank and unreadable. The officious, in-control Mycroft was back, holding his emotions in tight check.

"Yeah," said John, looking sideways at Mycroft before returning his gaze to Sherlock, not bothering to try and restrain his emotions too. He was too tired, and it seemed too much like hard work. "That's good. Apparently he's going to come around soon, too."  
>Mycroft nodded stiffly. "So I understand." There was an awkward silence.<p>

"I requested that you wait for me, and police backup." Mycroft's voice was dangerously neutral and checked. He still wasn't looking at John, staring straight ahead at his brother's closed eyes, expression unreadable.  
>"Yep," said John, determinedly and unapologetically insolent.<br>"You ignored me," he said, and this time there was something akin to quiet disapproval in his voice.  
>"Yep." John decided that if Mycroft was going to be angry with him, there wasn't much he could do or say to stop it. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying goes.<p>

There was a quiet pause. "...Thank you," said Mycroft eventually, voice still quiet and even, "for not listening."  
><em>That<em> got a response from John. "What?"  
>"I'm not going to say it again," said Mycroft in a tight voice, sounding almost embarrassed. "I don't admit to being wrong very often, and I will not repeat myself. If you had not turned up when you did, my brother could have been killed."<p>

"He very nearly _was_ killed _because_ I turned up. If I hadn't killed Moriarty, then Sebastain wouldn't have shot him, and he wouldn't be..." John trailed off, swallowing and blinking too quickly. "I was stupid, so _stupid_."  
>A hand touched his shoulder. "John." Mycroft's voice was softer and gentler than he'd ever heard it. "My brother is what he is. He was perfectly able to get into trouble before he met you, and if you decide to leave it will be a skill he will continue to excel at it. The only thing he has got better at since meeting you is getting <em>out<em> of trouble."

John looked up at him in surprise, searching for any falsity on Mycroft's face or in his tone. He found none. "If you had not been here tonight, I have little doubt that he would be a lot worse off than he is now. Possibly- probably dead."  
>"How can you be so sure?" John knew he was probably being obnoxious, argumentative, but he needed to be sure, needed the absolution from his guilt.<p>

Mycroft sighed. "Look. You will never manage to change Sherlock. He will never stop being annoying and obnoxious. He will never stop running off across London and leaving you behind. ...He will never stop hurting others and getting hurt. All you can do is trail behind and pick up the pieces, and hope maybe he notices one day."

He smiled slightly, the corner of his mouth twisting upward. "I've been doing it – _trying_ to do it my whole life. You've done a much better job than me, though, I must say. Not many people are willing to do that for someone they're not related to." He paused, eyeing John. "You are a remarkable person, Doctor Watson."

John nodded, not in agreement or acceptance but just because that seemed the right thing to do. "Thank you," he added after a moment, voice soft. Some of the guilt pooling in his chest seemed to have lifted, for which he was grateful.

"You're talking about me."

Both John and Mycroft started at the quiet, rasping voice, heads lifting and eyes lighting up. Sherlock was peering at them both, eyes barely open, just a glimmering sliver between his eyelids. He smiled slightly when he saw them looking. "I can tell."  
>John was the first to speak. "Sherlock!" he yelped, and then clamped a hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant for it to come out so loud. "You're awake," he said, a bit quieter.<p>

Sherlock snorted. "Please don't be-" he coughed, eyes squeezing shut in pain, "-obvious."  
>"Don't be rude, little brother." John could practically hear the smirk in Mycroft's voice, and he could also feel the sudden waves of irritation and hostility that Sherlock exuded. "He's happy you're not dead."<br>"I wouldn't mind it if it meant getting away from _you_," muttered Sherlock sulkily under his breath, scowling.

John looked sideways at Mycroft, and wondered if he imagined the flash of exasperated hurt that flashed across the usually carefully controlled face. "Well, if you're going to be like that," he sighed, picking his umbrella up from where it was leaning against the bed. John eyed it warily, the image of it smashing into Seba's head flashing past his eyelids. "I suppose _someone_ should go and tell the doctors you've woken up." He walked over to the door, paused, and turned, eyeing Sherlock. "I will talk to _you_ later." There was something slightly ominous about the emphasis.

As soon as the door had swung shut, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Drama queen," he rasped, smiling at John.  
>John shook his head in baffled amusement. "You know, you shouldn't be so harsh on him. He- I <em>think<em> he really cares about you."  
>Sherlock ignored him, huffed out an annoyed breath, and then winced. "These painkillers are <em>useless<em>," he complained, eyes opening a bit more.

John frowned, looking worried. "I'm sure the doctors will fix them when they turn up." He settled into a chair at Sherlock's bedside, leaning forward so he could catch the soft words.  
>"No they won't. Doctors are useless." He paused. "Other than you, of course."<br>John laughed, feeling warmth spread through him at the sort-of-compliment. "Now you're just whining."

"Well, there's nothing else to do," said Sherlock sulkily, eyes sliding nearly closed again.  
>John reached over and touched the back of his hand gently. "Easy. Don't exhaust yourself, you've only just got out of major surgery. You were shot, for god's sake. Take it easy."<br>Sherlock smiled, catching John's hands in his fingers. He didn't seem to have the strength or inclination to grip hard, but John didn't try to retrieve it. "Thank you. For coming to get me. For staying with me."

"What else did you think I was going to do, you idiot?" asked John, grinning.  
>The smile slid off Sherlock's face, and he suddenly looked very vulnerable, something John had not seen before; it made him feel intensely uncomfortable. "I... but... you were so <em>angry<em> with me..." he whispered. He bit his lip, eyes slipping closed. He looked like he was trying to bury his head in the pillow.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, look at me." John tried to keep his tone quiet and level, waiting until Sherlock's eyes were focused on him, somehow cold and curious at the same time. "No matter how angry I get with you, I will never, _ever_ just... _abandon_ you."  
>"But-" He looked confused – the painkillers and traces of anaesthetic probably weren't helping his mental clarity, but it could have just been Sherlock being Sherlock.<br>"Never. Now shush, or the doctors will kick me out for upsetting you."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide, lips a perfect 'o' for a second, and then he smiled. "They'd upset me a lot more if they kicked you ou-" His eyes scrunched shut and he began coughing again, trying to twist into a ball as they tore at his throat. "Owww..." John stood up, squeezing Sherlock's hand and rubbing his shoulder gently until the coughing subsided. "I'm glad you stayed."

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	17. An Interesting Interrogation

**A/N: Penultimate chapter! Well, and an epilogue, but they're both pretty small, so together they really only make one chapter. I know, I know, it makes me sad too, this story has been such a joy to write, and this entire fandom is just... fantastic. I'll have to write more from Sherlock some time... Anyway, enjoy!  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
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><p>The doors opened, and the doctor from before bustled, with another trailing behind at her heels. They both looked completely focused and professional, their expression one that John himself had worn many times before when dealing with patients. For a moment, he understood how people could hate doctors for being so cold and impersonal.<p>

"How long has he been awake?" she demanded of John, not looking at him but checking the machines and the chart at the end of Sherlock's bed.  
>"Not long. About five minutes? Seven?" hazarded John, wishing he'd paid more attention. He <em>was<em> a doctor, after all.

"Good. Can you remember your name?" She addressed Sherlock, allowing her face to soften slightly.  
>"Yes." Sherlock sounded sulky, and coughed again, briefly.<br>The doctors waited. No response was forthcoming.

The second doctor, the new one, a tall man with brownish hair and grey eyes, was the first to catch on. "_What_ is your name?" he asked, smiling slightly.  
>Sherlock looked at him appraisingly, raising one eyebrow and allowing the corner of one mouth to quirk up slightly. "Sherlock Holmes. I was born on January the 6th. Before ending up here, I was shot in a small flat on Park Street."<p>

The young doctor smiled wider. "I see you've done this before."  
>"Once or twice." There was a dry, amused tone to his voice. "<em>You<em>, on the other hand, are..." he peered at the man's badge, "Doctor James Stoker. You've worked here for approximately six weeks. This is the second hospital you've worked at, which is strange, considering you've been qualified for less than a year. I expect you found the previous hospital you worked at too officious and bureaucratic, so you transferred in the hope of finding somewhere less so. Unfortunately, upon arriving here, you realised it was exactly the same as the last place."

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes in an attempt to clear his head and stop the steadily growing ache in his stomach. "You _would_ have already left here, other than the growing – and, by the way, correct – feeling that _all_ hospitals are just as tied down in paperwork, and you're never going to find anywhere better. That and your current hope that you will eventually work up the courage to ask Dr. Darson here, whom you have been rather enamoured with since you first met here, out to lunch."

He cracked an eye open, and noticed the two doctors staring. John was merely smiling, shaking his head in amusement. "Sorry, I would be more specific, but I'm afraid it's rather hard to think at the moment."  
>"Does... does he do this a lot?" asked Dr. Darson, half looking at John, glancing at her colleague out the corner of her eye – he was still staring at Sherlock, blushing slightly and looking amazed.<p>

"Oh, no," said John, waving an absent hand. "Usually he's a lot more thorough – works out what you've had for breakfast, your entire life story and the names of all your siblings." He peered at Sherlock in mock-thought, and was glad to see a faint smile on his friend's face. "Must be the painkillers." She gaped at him. "But then again... Sherlock's what's the name of the current Prime Minister?"

Sherlock glowered at him, before wincing, his hands darting slightly towards his stomach. That was all that was needed to break the spell of confused fascination Sherlock's deduction had wrought. Dr. Stoker moved forward, checking a machine, and announced to no one in particular, "He needs more painkillers."

"Um, okay." She turned to John. "If you could step outside for a moment, just while we're-"  
>"Of course," said John, smiling. He caught sight of Sherlock opening his mouth to argue. "I'll be back in a moment, don't worry," he soothed, and exited the room, unenvious of the two doctors who now had to deal with a sulking Sherlock all on their own.<p>

He was surprised to find Lestrade waiting in the corridor. "I thought you were at the station?"  
>"I was," said Lestrade. "Came here to see how Sherlock was doing – and to ask you two some questions." He looked relaxed; some concern, presumably for Sherlock, showed on his face, but other than that, he was expressionless<p>

John felt a small knot of worry twist in his stomach, and discarded it instantly. He'd shot Moriarty, and didn't regret it for a moment, but it had been a killing 'in cold blood', as it were. He'd not even attempted to stop him by negotiation, and it was perfectly obvious he'd shot to kill rather than incapacitate. Technically, what he'd done was murder, and Lestrade knew it, knew he'd done it.

"Ask away," he said, trying to seem relaxed too, unable to keep his fingers clenching reflexively. He was suddenly grateful for the spare t-shirt the hospital staff had found for him, even if it was ill-fitting and an offensive shade of orange. He didn't think he could have had this conversation covered in Moriarty and Sherlock's blood.

"What happened to Moriarty?" Lestrade was suddenly all business, a notepad and pen in hand, watching John intently.  
>John had been expecting the question. "He died."<br>Lestrade paused, and then raised an eyebrow at John, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What, spontaneously?"

"Yeah. Being shot in the head is a pretty quick death." John felt himself beginning to relax. It was evident that Lestrade had not been any fonder of Moriarty than John. He suspected that the police would probably be grateful Moriarty was no longer a menace, and wouldn't look _that_ hard at the fact his death was probably murder rather than self-defence.

"You were the one that shot him?" The question was quiet.  
>"Yes. The gun's still in the flat, I think."<br>"Where did you get it from?"  
>John shrugged. "Old army pistol. Kept it for sentimental value, really." If Lestrade noticed him crossing his fingers behind his back, he didn't mention it.<p>

"Sentimental...? Right. Why did you take it with you?" Lestrade sounded bored, as though he already knew the answer.  
>"Because last time I met Moriarty and didn't have it with me, I got kidnapped. And then my flatmate got hold of it, and used it to blow up a swimming pool."<br>Lestrade snorted with laughter, shaking his head and lowering his pen. "I'm not going to get anything serious out of you, am I?"

"Nope." John smiled back, glad he wasn't angry.  
>"Okay, okay." He pushed the pen and pad back into his pocket. "It's just a formality, anyway – you'll probably need to come and make a witness statement about the whole incident, but we've got enough hard evidence that it's not a priority. Although I will still need to speak to Sherlock."<br>John nodded, feeling relieved.

Lestrade seemed to pick up on his emotions. "I know that, technically, you murdered Moriarty, but to be honest, well... I think everyone's just going to be glad he's no longer a problem. I've talked to Mycroft, apparently he's smoothing things over higher up." He smiled tiredly at John. "I should object, I know, but I don't think it would do any good. He can be quite stubborn when he wants to be. I think he rather likes you, you know," he added absently, peering at John as if he was trying to work out what was so special about him.

"You know Mycroft?" John resisted the temptation to add 'well' onto the end of the question, because that much was already evident.  
>"Yeah. After the first time Sherlock helped me on a case, he-"<br>"Kidnapped you off the streets, took you to an abandoned warehouse, threatened you, and tried to bribe you into spying on Sherlock for him?" suggested John.  
>Lestrade laughed again, shaking his head. "I can see he got you, too. And almost – he took me to an office, not a warehouse. He offered me tea." He looked thoughtful.<p>

"Lucky," muttered John. "I thought he was going to beat me to death with that umbrella of his."  
>"Yeah. Not an <em>entirely<em> unfounded worry." John knew they were both thinking about Sebastian being knocked out.  
>"Speaking of umbrellas, what's going to happen to Sebastian?" asked John, trying to keep his tone neutral. He didn't manage it. Lestrade looked at him, mildly suspicious.<br>"He'll be charged with attempted murder, aiding and abetting, and repeated counts of kidnapping. I'd imagine he'll get a life sentence. Why?"

John sighed, running a hand over his face. "I knew him when he was in the army." He heard Lestrade's sharp intake of breath. "Well, not _knew_, exactly. I knew _of_ him – he was a brilliant soldier – and I treated him when he got injured. Gunshot wound to the ribs," he added in answer to Lestrade's questioning glance.

"And...?" Lestrade prompted.  
>"It didn't heal so well. Infection. He was discharged afterwards, obviously, sent home. He was under my care before he got sent back, a week or so. And... well. Psychology isn't my area of expertise, I'm more 'hands-on', but... there was something not right with him. It's got worse, if the... heh, I don't suppose you can call them condversations, with him are anything to go by. What it was, is, I'm not sure, wouldn't even want to take a guess. But there were issues there, I think. PTSD or some kind attention deficit or... something."<p>

Lestrade nodded. "You're saying we should get some psychologist or another to look at this guy?"  
>"Might be a good idea, yeah." John lapsed into silence.<br>Lestrade was staring at him, shaking his head in amazement. "He just tried to kill you and Sherlock, and you're trying to _help_ him?" he asked, sounding incredulous."

John shook his head. "No, it's not..." He sighed. "Look, I understand what it's like to come back from the war, to have no one there for you, and to- to _miss_ it." Lestrade looked at him in alarm, and he hurried to quantify his remark. "Not the whole being shot at thing, but the adrenaline, the excitement. You just feel... flat. I can see how, if he came back, and Moriarty was there, just _waiting_..."

Lestrade looked at him oddly. "You're saying that you found Sherlock, and he found Moriarty?"  
>John looked relieved. "Yeah. And if he was struggling with psychological problems at the same time, on his own, it would have made the whole idea having someone <em>there<em>seem that much more... right. Nice." He looked down, shoving his hands into his pockets, suddenly feeling almost embarrassed.

"I can see what you're saying," said Lestrade slowly. "Thank you. I'll see what I can do to get him some kind of psychological assessment."  
>John nodded, still looking at the floor, and let out a small woosh of breath.<p>

"But John?" There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, not gripping it, just resting there gently. Comfortingly. "You're not Sebastian Morran. Don't forget that." The hand squeezed his shoulder briefly, and then there was the sound of retreating footsteps, echoing down the quiet hall. John stayed there, leaning against the wall, looking at the floor. After the echo of the footsteps had died in the corridor, he whispered into the silent air.

"Thank you."

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	18. A Sneaky Escape

**A/N: Okay, so I lied about this being the last chapter. You get a teensy-weensy little epilogue after this, but then that's the end. I mean it this time! =.= But seriously, the epilogue is only my little headcanon sort of thing (how do you have headcanons for your own story?), so if you don;t like it, then you're welcome to treat this as the end of the story and ignore it. The epilogue should be up... oh, some time in the next few days, and then I will finally be able to mark this complete. So, without further ado, the last (proper) chapter. Enjoy!  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
><strong>

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><p>"Let go of me, John, I'm not an invalid! I can walk perfectly well on my own, thank you."<br>"I beg to differ. You've just been released from hospital after being _shot_, Sherlock. You are _absolutely_ an invalid."  
>"I can <em>walk<em> on my _own_."  
>"…Well, if you say so…"<p>

There was a pause, and then a yelp and a soft thud. Laughter soon followed, and was quickly accompanied by a growl of irritation. A moment of silence passes, and then Sherlock swallowed his pride enough to murmur, "If you could possibly help me up, John?"

"You really _are_ an idiot, you know that?" John sighed, shaking his head in exasperation, and then bent down with an amused smirk and helped Sherlock to his feet. The two continued the journey up the stairs in silence – Sherlock because he was sulking and nursing his bruised pride, and John because he was trying not to laugh and bruise Sherlock's pride even further. It was bad enough he was going to spend the next few weeks cooped up with the man in a flat (the whining was going to be _unbearable_), without him sulking as well.

After two weeks, Sherlock had finally been released from hospital. Ostensibly, this was because he was far enough down the road to recover that John could look after him without any undue risk to the patient's health. In reality, it had mainly been because Sherlock had driven the nurses and doctors to breaking point and had threatened to orchestrate a 'jail break' unless Mycroft didn't step in and get him released. However, his influence hadn't been entirely bad; John had seen Dr. Stoker talking quietly and earnestly to Dr. Darson in the corridors, holding hands and smiling.

Lestrade had already questioned Sherlock, almost as soon as he was off of the painkillers enough that he could stay awake and coherent for more than half an hour at a time. John had insisted on being present. Sherlock had answered all his questions with a bored, impersonal air, but John had seen the quiet not-quite-fear lurking behind his eyes. Afterwards, when he had gently pulled the other man into a hug, Sherlock hadn't pulled away, but instead buried his head in John's shoulder for several minutes and fought to keep his breathing even.

And now they were returning to their flat, albeit rather slowly – stairs were, as Sherlock had put it, a seldom-noticed menace that only became apparent when you least needed the trouble. Although John _had_ been sleeping at the flat after Sherlock had recovered sufficiently that he wasn't in imminent danger (hospital chairs were _murder_ on the back), it had felt empty without its customary brooding sociopath.

They finally reached the top of the stairs, fumbled with the door, and practically fell inside. John snorted with amusement at their uncoordinated flailing in an attempt to stay upright, and Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, which had made John chuckle even more.

And then there was noise from the kitchen – someone humming absently under their breath, footsteps, something that could have been a kettle boiling – and the unimpressed look disappeared, to be replaced by one of gut-wrenching, instinctual terror. It was gone within seconds, replaced by a carefully blank look, but John saw it. Heart twisting in his chest, he squeezed his friend's arm gently and called out, "Mycroft?"

"Only me, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice floated from the kitchen, and John felt Sherlock relax slightly.  
>"Hi, Mrs. Hudson. You okay?" John headed towards the kitchen, pausing to help Sherlock sit in the chair next to it, placing the crutches next to his chair carefully.<br>"Yes, yes, I'm fine, love, I just thought I'd try and tidy the place up a bit, I know how busy you've been with the surgery and Sherlock and Sarah, and I thought it would be nice if Sherlock could come back to a tidy flat, and besides it's been getting on my nerves rather, but I must say it's awfully messy in here-"

"I hope you've not touched any of my experiments. Some of them took forever to set up." Sherlock craned his neck, peering over his shoulder in an attempt to check if any of the mess over the kitchen table had been moved. John rolled his eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that his flatmate would at least leave the table uncluttered – eating off of his knees on the sofa lost its novelty after a while.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're _back_!" Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the kitchen, bending down to scrutinise his face, pinching his cheek and tutting absently and what she saw. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but didn't object, waiting until she'd turned away to roll his eyes and make a face.

"You're looking a bit peaky, love, and after all that time in hospital I don't blame you, the food in there's appalling, absolutely _appalling_, I remember from when I went in for my hip. I tell you what, I'll make you a nice cup of tea, I think I've still got some biscuits left over somewhere…" She headed over to the door, pausing when her hand touched the handle. "But just this once, mind. I'm your-"

"-landlady, not our housekeeper," completed John and Sherlock, sharing a grin. She smiled indulgently at them, shaking her head as if they were a pair of cheeky schoolboys and left the room, humming tunelessly to herself.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, and his eyes glittered with amusement, before widening as a small beeping noise broke the quiet of the flat. He reached into his pocket and drew out his phone, clicking a button and reading the screen intently, eyebrows lowered in focus.

John sighed. "I hope that's not what I think it is."  
>"It's from Lestrade," said Sherlock distractedly, still scrutinising the tiny screen as if willing it to reveal the meaning of life. "There's been a murder."<br>"There's _always_ a murder," snapped John angrily. "He's no right to be asking you to help him when you're just out of hospital. You're supposed to be resting!"

"No, no." Sherlock finally looked up. "He was only asking me for my opinion. He sent me the details in an email - useless. I can't do anything unless I get to see the scene with my own eyes. I'm afraid he rather agrees with you about the rest thing." He had an almost wistful tone as he said it.  
>"That's because he's <em>sensible<em>," said John. "And don't even think about it, Sherlock."  
>"Sensible's boring," he answered automatically. "And what?" The look on his face was as close to angelic as a grown man could get.<p>

"I know that look. You're planning to rush off and ignore him and visit the crime scene. And I'm forbidding it, you hear me? If you leave this flat, I'll… I'll…" He cast around for a threat strong enough to make Sherlock stay put. "I'll dismantle your experiments. I'm serious!" he added, when Sherlock snorted with amusement. "Stay. Here. And. Rest."

"Where're you going, then?" Sherlock's eyes tracked him to the foot of the stairs, curious. Looking for an opportunity, not that John knew that. Sherlock had had a lot of practice at keeping his expression neutral.

"Going to change into something more suitable for a date. I promised I'd take Sarah out to lunch as a sorry-for-being-sort-of-responsible-for-your-kidnapping present." He misinterpreted Sherlock's annoyed expression as self-concern. "Don't worry, I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to make some lunch for you or something, and I'll be back in time for dinner. Maybe." And with that, he disappeared upstairs.

Sherlock grinned a Cheshire cat's grin as soon as John was out of sight, and gently, quietly picked up his crutches. With surprisingly little noise, considering his current state of incapacitation, he limped out of the room, down the stairs, unlocked the front door, and slipped out onto the streets.

By the time John had returned, Sherlock was already in a cab, half way to the crime scene, smirking happily to himself.

John stared at the empty chair for a second, ran a hand through his hair in total frustration, and the proceeded to swear loudly and copiously for over a minute. "Sherlock, you- Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled down the stairs. "Where is Sherlock?"  
>Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up to him. "Oh, he left about five minutes ago, dear. Probably on the way to another of his crime scenes, I <em>thought<em> it was a bit odd he didn't bring you along…"

John muttered furiously under his breath in fury, searching his pockets and pulling out his phone. He dialled the number, took a deep breath as the dial tone rang, and then forced a smile onto his face as the caller picked up. "Hi, Sarah. Yeah, about the lunch…"

Five minutes of furious Sarah later, he grabbed his coat and stormed out the door. Unable to find a taxi, he started walking. Despite his cancelled lunch date, despite flatmate-slash-patient, despite the fact it looked like rain and his coat wasn't waterproof – he couldn't help but smile.

_Sherlock, you really are an idiot._

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><p><strong>Reviews are always appreciated...<strong>


	19. A Worrying Epilogue

((To Ellis: Sorry for this, but I can't contact you any other way. Unfortunately, I couldn't fulfil your request because I've had this entire story completed for some time, and it's been fully posted on deviantArt for some time now, so I can't really change it. But, it _is_ a highly intruiging idea, and has given me a rather nice plot bunny, so stalk my profile or something because I may well write a oneshot based on it at some point in the future. :p))

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
><strong>

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><p>Halfway across the city, in St. Barts morgue, a young woman was cutting open the corpse she was currently dissecting with just slightly more anger than was strictly necessary. <em>Damn him! Damn him, damn his impatience, damn his carelessness!<em> She paused, and forced herself to take a deep breath as she nearly punctured a lung with another angry cut. Being angry with her little toy wouldn't do any good – besides, he was dead now, out of her reach. _And, despite all that, despite all the wasted effort I put into him, he didn't even manage to bring me my prize!_

She took another deep breath, setting down the scalpel and using her wrist to brush a stray lock of hair from in front of her face. _Well,_ she thought, examining the corpse in front of her with the pride of an artist examining a sculpture. _I'll just have to find someone else. Someone slightly more obedient and capable. Slightly less… _intelligent. She stared at the wall thoughtfully for several seconds before the name came to her, and a smile curved over her lips. _Oh yes. He will do… very nicely indeed. Very, _very_ nicely._

And with that, Molly Hooper picked up her scalpel and returned to work – determined that, this time, Sherlock Holmes really _would_ be hers. At last.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, this is it, guys. _The end._ :o Thank you _so much_ to _all_ my wonderful, lovely reviewers, who have made my day time and time again:**

KC, Coragyps, 98Shaddowwolff98, FuzzyDeMash, Hawke 1234321, Feej, Etherlinda's Window, Shizuku Tsukishima749, SocialMoth, reen212000, Handful of Silence, Univarius, thisisforyou, toeki, Detectiveatwork, Allie Chick, CountryGrl, Dee, Linwe Elendil, Pholo, VHunter07, ThePhoenix'sSong, , Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul, Stacy Harris, RainbowBrains, bbcmcowgirl, lolgirl607, Vamsi, ImLostForever, Serethiel, briongloi fiodoir, Jodi2011, SamuraiGirl88, Electryone, couchbarnacle, irish gal 2, RoseLovedDrugs, Anna lee, Snow'sLuckyCat, Vicki, MyNameIsDoodle, bruderlein, PennyCent, Narnian Sprite, charliebrown1234, Pilikai18, Dayja, Miriza, BlueRaven, MemoryNZ, Odd23, perichan, Skyfullofstars, and Ellis.

**I know I've not replied to all of you all the time, but I _have_ read every single one of your beautiful comments (and I promise, if you review on this chapter, I _will_ reply). Thank you to everyone for sticking with me through this, and to everyone who added this to their alerts/faves list and never reviewed (c'mon, I don't bite!). Interesting fact: according to my stats, this story has had visitors from 47 countries. I am... amazed. If you feel like it, I'd love to know where you all come from so I can work out if it's just making it up, and where my readers are...**

**And so, with an evilly ambiguous epilogue, and one last thank you, I shall bid you all adieu!**


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